Ivalian nights, or a world beyond the Mist
by Nuclear Burp
Summary: A series of oneshots, Drabbles, Songfics and Poemfics written for your amusement and wonder.
1. A mild disclaimer

Suggestions would be appreciated!

_Now, read on!! _

* * *

_At night under the Galbanas, a Queen slept sound, and dreamed._

_Of many Knights in armour gold, that shone and spun and gleamed,_

_But 'twas of two that day of dubbing, so well enclosed in sight,  
_

_A pair of grown twins, most strong, encased in plates of silver-white._

_Noah and Basch, the guardians, their lives forsworn to others,_

_So grim and slightly circumspect, these proud and noble brothers._

_Giving of themselves, and never asking hence,_

_For pay, recognition; or other recompense. _

_The Paragons of manhood, the apogees of honour,_

_For infantile princes, and a royal Primadonna.  
_

_  
But what she dreamed was tainted much, by the wine that night for sup,_

_"Hello there, sexy queen." They grinned, "We're gonna sex you up!"_

_In her head, she squealed loud, her fantasy's begun,_

_That they were twins did matter not, for they to her were one._

_And as I'm telling ye thus, I hear many reviewer's rants._

_But why review if you like it not? Take that, Smartypants!_

_In her slumber, she clenched the sheets, at the sight of the knights virile,_

_Her eyes rolled back, her face flushed red as she beamed a fangirl smile._

_They kissed with lips so rugged, caressed with calloused hands, _

_A carried with them a mystic scent from strange and unknown lands._

_And they whispered sweetest nothings into her youthful cultured ear,_

_So whilst she was distracted thus, they removed her Brassiere._

_I could tell you what they did from there, but to the ratings hark,_

_The admins would kick my bum full well, which would leave a mark._

_But lo! A thief enters the room, where the princess does toss and turn._

"_Happy birthday!" The youth does cry, a squeal of shock is earned,_

_From the princess who woke annoyed, but rather more truly glum,_

"_Vaan you fool!" The princess cried, "I was just about to-…"_

"… _Get a midnight snack?" The rogue does smile, the censors have been dodged!_

"_No, you jerk. Take that and this!" Soon a sword in he is lodged._

_And back to bed, the Princess went, to try and dream again._

_Oblivious the pained agonies of an ill-fated Ratsbane._

_So heed my words, oh reader fair, for my words are much, yet few._

_You'll end up like ol' Ratsbane there, If'n you don't review!_


	2. The rain approacheth

_Okay, Broken Katana wanted me to do a chapter on Vaan and Reks, and Sharperimage wanted something on Penelo. Well, I'll do a Penelo thing next chapter. _

_ But here it is, a Reks drabble, set after he dies. It's no poem, but still..._

_Read on._

* * *

I took another step, shedding tears of the spirit, refraining for the tears that my brother would have scolded me for.

Would have, had not a traitor slain him.

_I'm lookin' at you through the glass…_

It was a small funeral, a few friends (No family, no family remained.) and some old associates. Migelo, Penelo, Penelo's older brothers, Haave and Kist and, of course…

Me.

Looking at my brother, so peaceful under the glass of his coffin. Galbana lilies pressed to his chest, my final gift to him.

_Don't know how much time has passed…_

"We have gathered here today to mourn the passing of-"

"Don't say the name, don't say it! Don'tsayitdon'tsayit'causeifyoudothenitmeanshe'sreallydead!" I whisper hard against my teeth.

"- Reks Ghostslayer, who was taken from us-"

"No…" I feel my sides heave, shaking with sobs that refuse to come out, refusing to dishonour my brother in death as I had failed to aid him at life…

"-At the hands of a Kingslayer. To the end, Reks was an inspiration to us all, he taught us what it meant to protect someone, regardless of what the cost may be…"

I listen with only half an ear to the sermon. Penelo's gripping my arm, maybe she knows something more about how much it hurts, when a face you've known all your life and expect to know for a lot, lot longer… Suddenly disappears.

"… As they say, a warrior is known by the measure of his enemies, but a man is judged by the measure of his kin and friends…"

He wasn't going to sing to me anymore. He knew so many songs, about daring thieves and cheeky rapscallions of the skies. 'That's where we're going, bro. To the skies! Maybe even higher, if the gods let us!'

And so many stories… I loved to sit on his knee and listen to all the tales of his adventures at the Westersand, slaying Saurians and entire wolf-packs! And then there was the tale of the Garanscythe waterway, how he uncovered a Necro-cult and slaughtered the ghosts that had taken root in the sewers, blasting them with wave after wave of holy magic…

"Truly, by this measure, Reks was a great man, and his legacy will continue strong, through you. Let the light shine along his path, and may the God themselves guide him to the promised land. Faram."

"Faram." Everyone choruses. The coffin is lowered into the grave, the first rattle of earth on the glass top seems to take minutes to quieten down… But soon…

I don't know how much time has passed, but I'm now sitting on the rooftop of the Sphere-tower. This is where I can remember him, my way.

_All I know is that it feels like forever…_

Reks was my brother. He wouldn't what me to remember him, or say farewell at a cheap funeral, when the sun was shining strong on us all and the despair clouded all thoughts and feelings…

Up here, watching the storm clouds rolling up from the thunderplains, I think I can see the last flickers of the huge sunstones on the plains. They flicker, fade… Gone from sight. The last rays of dust filter through, casting shadows over the city. Maybe the gods really did care? No, if they did, Reks would be here with me, laughing with me as I showed him the days 'earnings'…

'So, Vaan, I'll teach ya to fight, right?'

That had been two years ago to the day he died. Those few license points I did have were worth a small sword… But we trained with wood. Rather, he stood there and let me practice my swings; I'd always known where I'd go wrong… Because of my brothers warm hands, always guiding me…

All I know is that it feels like forever since I felt his touch and heard his laughter… I'd never think I could miss anything this badly.

_But nobody ever tells you that forever feels like home…_

The first drops of rain splat off my hair, followed by many more as the sky growls defiance at the uncaring ground. It sounded like the rumble of the Warships roaming over the countryside, something I hoped never to see again.

"I knew I'd find you here."

Penelo. She was with me, she was always with me. She'd understand, right?

"Pen, I gotta… please, just… Oh gods…" I couldn't help it, she was there and I had to turn to her, hoping that the rain and thunder would hide my sorrow as I buried my face on her shoulder, gasping and heaving as the tears finally, finally came. They were warm, so warm… Anything warm seemed to remind me of my brother.

So I cried, bunching up the folds of Penelo's clothing as I yelled and moaned and screamed my hate of the empire, of Kingslayers and of traitors. The tears were still warm, so I remembered, and I cried some more, and I remembered.

She was holding me, making shushing noises and keeping me standing as my knees grew weak, I couldn't think of the last time I had let her see me like this. I hope she doesn't hate me for being weak… I don't want her to leave.

But she doesn't, and finally the warmth leaves my tears and we're standing, holding each other in the rain, the lightning illuminating the nooks and crannies everywhere, hiding gargoyles from my nightmares.

I've been crying forever, but Forever feels like home now, and I let Penelo hold my hand and lead me back, where Migelo had left a steaming bowl of soup and a few pieces of fruit.

I can't eat yet. Penelo nods and sits by me, still holding my hand.

_Sitting all alone inside your head…_

"It'll be okay. He'll save you a spot, and you can tell him your own stories when you get there, right?" She gives me a small smile, and that's all I needed.

"Y-yeah, you know, I-I'm gonna do it." I stutter, sniffing as I looked with damp eyes at the ceiling.

"Become a sky pirate? Really? You'll… take me too, right?"

"Uh-huh, we'll go to places no-ones ever seen, and we'll… we'll find crystals so big they'll sink the airship!" I laugh half-heartedly, lying back on the bed.

"So we're going to have an airship too? Are we stealing one, or are you hiding it under your bed as a surprise?" She teases me so much, but I haven't got it in me to taunt back.

"Maybe." Is all I say. I want to sleep. I yawn, I clutch her hand. I don't wanna be alone.

"Hey, Pen? This is gonna sound really weird, but…" I don't know how to finish that sentence, it sounds… _wrong_ somehow.

"Yeah, I know. You're scared of sleeping alone, right?" Penelo's face is turned from mine. I don't know how she's going to take it.

For a minute, I'm sitting all alone inside my head, looking out. Then, I remember those words that Reks told me, when I was real young…

'Vaan, remember, if you find a treasure that you can't think of being without, never let it go. It's a part of you, a sort of love that hurts when you're away from it. Never let them go.'

She leaves without a word, and I sit alone on the bed. A few minutes later, she re-appears in a nightgown, petticoat showing under the white and blue overlay. She sits down beside me again, holds my hand.

"For tonight. I'm scared too, Vaan."

So gentle, softer than Phoenix down…

I cough, and she leaves the room so that I can change into my under-bedclothes. I cough again, she comes in, we slip under the sheets and she wiggles uncomfortably.

"You have cold feet." She giggles. This is kinda weird, but the light-magicite faded then, leaving us both in darkness. I hold her hand, my face still sticky with tears, those wonderful waters of depression.

I can hold her; feel her body's warmth and her soft breath on my neck…

But my thoughts are muddy, the bed is so cozy, I can't think of anything but…

I feel her arms slip over me, and then she begins to sob, slowly, sadly. It's been too much, all of today, and the tears start again.

So we cry ourselves to sleep, both mourning over the death of our friend, our best friend.

And I realize something, there in the dark.

I've found the treasure I can't be without, I'm holding her now.

And I'm never letting go.

* * *

_Right, A Penelo chapter's up next! _

_If you enjoyed it, tell me! If you have a suggestion, tell me!_

_And if your name is Broken Katana, remember that this was dedicated to ya!_


	3. Intervention

_Heh heh, this was originally a piece I wrote for Hito ni Bore and Lady Penthier. Sorry about this!_

* * *

Once on a midsummers day, fol de rol, fol de rol,

A pirate a'simmered away, oh fol de rol, fol de rol,

But for a jug 'o water, fol de rol de rol,

Would die like cow to slaughter, fol diddle dee rol.

-

But Hark! A'cross the 'rison, two maidens take a gander,

O' this mighty man of skies, tongue fluent with witty banter,

Parched and at the door of death, but soon to see the end,

Yon maidens pass to him a mug, 'Dale's Ale' the legend!

-

And lo his thirst was well banished, fol de rol, fol de rol,

His pained countenance vanished, oh fol de rol, fol de rol,

But yet to the 'ffects of yonder booze-end, fol de rol de rol,

His inhibitions suddenly loosened, fol diddle dee rol!

-

And as his espied the lasses, not accustomed to the masses-

-Of bosom presented before him, nor such round, tender... wrists. --Sweapdrop--

His tongue began to wag, as was accustomed to his station,

"Good Ladies, your miracle drink has led me to exclamation!"

-

And so thus did he owe his life, fol de rol, fol de rol,

Bound there to choose a wife, oh fol de rol, fol de rol,

But which of the two to pick? Fol de rol de rol,

How would he manage this trick? Fol diddle dee rol!

-

"Shall be me!" A lady cried, Hito was to be her name,

"But rather I!" The maiden Penthier did then proclaim,

"My angels..." Balthier input, his tongue did cross his lips,

"... I cannot choose." He sighed, but placed his hands on either hips.

-

But then a travelling bard arose, fol de rol, fol de rol,

"Hark well!" He solemnly reposed, oh fol de rol, fol de rol,

"The great Naba has a solution!", Fol de rol de rol,

"Let them both be your resolution!" Fol diddle dee rol!

-

And Balthier noted words so wise, and worked a massive compromise,

"Good maidens fair", he did declare, "I've decided on _both_ your Derrieres!"

"And but for May, the day of hay, shall we while the time away!-

-So let us haste! Much must be faced, 'til our fates be 'twined and placed!"

-

Oh so much mackin' was done, fol de rol, fol de rol,

More fun was had then none, Oh fol de rol, fol de rol,

And as for Naba Bardophit, fol de rol de rol,

He sold the pictures, and made a profit!

Fol diddle de rol mack a doodle do day!

* * *

_Meh, this was just something to ease the time. Penelo is next!_


	4. Musings

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* * *

  


* * *

  


_Sorry! I can't think of anything for Penelo. This one just popped into my head just now, wrote it in under an hour. Basically, a minor Basch/Ashe moment for Earisu, the New kid in the FFXII forums, and all you other Basch/Ashe fans out there. Suggestions, as always, will be appreciated._

* * *

"And then I swore, that very day, that I wished I'd never kissed her…"

Basch kept his eyes on the mirror, trying not to look at the suit of armour slowly covering in condensation from the bath. It sat there, mocking him, its black luster chanting the same thing every time he donned it for parade, or duty, or whatever the situation called.

_You couldn't save him._

Frowning, he paid more attention to his reflection, noting every curve of his thin beard. Only six months ago, it had been scraggly, unkempt, and coarse. Truth be told, he'd rather preferred it that way, it didn't need to be shorn, cut, premed, brushed, trimmed or emasculated. No damned razor cuts, no blasted toilet paper, no _maintenance._

He sighed, grimacing as the blade he held nicked him as it slid over his cheek. He so hated putting on appearances, so long in the armies, pretending to show no fear when his body screamed _flee! Flee for your life!_

He didn't recall what made him hold his ground. He didn't try, for right now he was cleaning his face of hair. _Maintenance._ So many meanings, most to do with appearances and integrity. Houses, weapons, armour… he glanced over to the toothbrush that he kept soaking in gin, the shot glass a present from Balthier (The man, as always, believed that all men had primal desires at heart. It was a miracle he hadn't simply given him vouchers to an Archadian whorehouse…).

Yes, that toothbrush had been his for the past six months. _That_ didn't need correcting, or changing. He picked it up, brushed, put it back, and that was that.

Done, done, done.

He groaned as he remembered the other things that needed maintenance. _Women._ Truth be told, he'd been quite a playboy in his youth, before the Academy called him elsewhere. Where was that fire now? All that remained was a binding to duty and a throbbing tiredness.

Where had the years gone?

Basch navigated the delicate strip between his nose and mouth.

_Women._ They were either high maintenance or low maintenance or some unimaginably finicky thing in between and… and… to hell with it all. Wasn't he supposed to be shaving?

Basch watched his reflection, trying not to notice the frown that creased his forehead. He reached out to his right and grabbed something that once belonged to his brother. He didn't pay it a second thought as he held the fine mesh over his jawline, letting the steel supports adjust themselves to the space over his chin. He scraped the metal over the mesh, trimming the hairs that grew longer than the fine wire chain.

Basch left himself in thought. Was this the way his brother had felt, the keeping of appearances for a country that wasn't his? A bastard ambassador, living in a cage built of paper, paper, yet more paper?

He washed the foam off the razor, and reapplied his ministrations on the other side of his jaw. How did his brother stand this? Warriors bound to heavy, sweaty armour, raging against the rules, the regulations… Placed in charge of peacock treaties, things held only by 'maybes', 'what-ifs' and other such possibilities.

If only… he could _do_ something, for once, if only something would _happen_. Not another war, Gods forbid. He'd seen too much of what men did to each other, he had no desire to destroy another man, Bangaa, Seej, Viera, anything. The taking of life had weighed heavily on him, but he had been desperate, been protecting his Queen.

He growled, deep in his chest. Even now, his Queen was ruling a new kingdom! Where was the justice? His guardee, kept at bay from his watchful eyes…

He had an epiphany, there and then.

_The reason that Maintenance sparks me wrongly… Is simply due to the knowledge that you're always preparing for things that may never come… The floods may never come, but we maintain the stopbanks. The Heart may never stop beating, yet we train and strengthen for when it does. The Princess may never visit me again, but…_

Basch stared at his reflection again.

"Why am I shaving, again?" He asked himself.

"Possibly because of the time your beard got caught in the shaft-gear on board the _Nabanaba_." A young voice belonging to a likewise young emperor who was leaning in the doorway answered him.

"Lord Larsa." He replied, not moving.

"Gabranth." His charge replied, his clipped tones unsuccessfully hiding some unknown mirth.

"Couldn't you wait until I finished?" Basch asked, rinsing his face of the foam and pulling his towel closer. It wasn't like the young lord to intrude on his privacy.

"I could. Your visitor, however, could not." Basch could hear the smile on the boys lips.

_Gods, if Vaan's asking for another map again, I'll break out the tattooist in Old Archades and…!_

"He is here, m'lady. Pray excuse me, affairs of state."

"Thank you, Lord Larsa."

Basch stiffened. _He knew that tone._

Before he could turn, he felt warm hands grace his shoulders, heard the sweep of white robes and winced at the marks the water on the floor would leave.

"I did not tell you, I am sorry."

He could hear the sorrow in her voice. It was hard not to turn and embrace her, but once again, Basch was bound by paper, paper, paper. The one thing that maintained the peace, the one thing that bound him greater than the chains in Nalbina. Paper, maintanence… how he hated them…

"It made for a fine surprise, regardless." He smiled, he could barely see her reflection in the fogged mirror, but…

He felt arms wrap around him, a soft breath floating over his back and tickling the hairs on his neck. He didn't know what to do, but doing nothing seemed to be… comfortable.

He felt the hands slip over his bristles, the small cultivated beard. The pinnacle of his appearance, that evil that was all too necessary…

"Just like I remembered." Her voiced cooed.

Basch remembered, then, why he kept up appearances. He laughed, the bloated Council, the cityfolk, they could go on thinking that he dressed and shaved for them.

But it was for the Princess, _his_ Princess, that he maintained himself. It was the only duty that didn't tire him, and he was glad of it.


	5. The Joys of metal

_A quick one, this one. Done for Miss Famke. I'mma go read some KibaIno now!_

* * *

_Painful…_

Fran kept her countenance. She had never let it falter, no matter how dire the situation. Whether firing a bow, stringing it, slicing a Mu across the neck with the tight string ir hanging it by her side, Fran kept her face, her demeanour, the same as her favoured weapon.

But _this_…

To admit to the pain would bring questions she'd rather not hear voiced. She could hear them now…

"You must admit, it helps, Fran. Without that, what would distract the patrons at the Sandsea?"

"Why do you have it, if all it gives is discomfort?"

"Wow, I never knew. You should have said something!"

"Why don't you just get rid of it?"

Fran shuddered, she'd hate to admit it, but the one weakness of hers lay in the blunt questions voiced by that brat of a Hume.

"How old are you again?"

It took all her will to walk away, and not give the subtle signals to her sisters of the wood… signals that would leave whatever remained of Vaan on the forest floor.

"Have you and Balthier… you know…"

The flush on his face told her all she needed to know. She simply walked away.

The next day, Vaan scratched himself as they walked towards the Nabudis. He'd contracted some kind of… Disease? But the Vaccines that he'd applied to himself only seemed to make him sneeze.

Fran would have grinned, but circumstances did not allow for that. She only contended herself that the Marlboro powder she'd slipped into his armour only provided a day-long itch. Sometimes, revenge was fun to dwell upon.

"How sensitive are your ears?"

She'd simply replied, 'Very'.

The next morning, he'd woken her up by banging two pots together and singing a Rozzarian ballad very off key.

Before her ears had stopped ringing and her balance had been restored enough to kick him in the, as Balthier referred to them, 'Baby-makers'; Ashe had brained him with her Rod and told him not to act up in public.

Aside from Penelo's ministrations, nothing but hard feelings were felt for some time afterwards.

_Painful._

Fran shifted as she walked, her hips softly swaying while her hair whipped and snaked in the soft breeze. Sometimes, the Ozmone Plains gave her the peace she needed. This was not one of them.

They paused, made to break camp. Fran went off by herself, contemplating. Nobody thought this out of the norm, she had made a habit of meditation long before she had met any of them.

She laughed quietly, then looked around, found a small stream, and dived in.

The water's chill bit, but she found something better to do.

She meditated.

She thought of how she was still, yielding to nature and not to metal. Like the forest, like wood and root and stock and stone, like boulder and rough grass. She imagined herself as strong, knowing herself to be so.

She thought of the mist, how she lived it, breathed it, would join it in time. She was the Black Mage, the duties of Magick falling into segments and divided to the others. To Vaan, Time Magick. To Penelo, Green Magick. Basch took the Arcane Variety as Ashe undertook training in the serenity of White Abilities.

Balthier would only shake his head, claiming that stage tricks were not worthy of a leading man. The fool spurned magick, and the stones that were tied to it…

But Ashe? What of her quest for the stone? Would her pursuit of white Magick teach her the selflessness? Prove to her that her pride mattered nothing compared to the pain of her people? Perhaps…

Fran nodded, so long as she could place the healing of others before herself, she would be, at least, an adequate ruler.

But to do that, she would need the wisdom of the wood.

Fran felt a kinship for her companions, she watched them come to terms with themselves, to tie up loose knots, in the case of Balthier and Basch, or to forge a new future, as she had seen the three younger humes strive for.

And then there was her, Fran of the Green word, who spurned her Viera brethren and searched for a new way.

She was power, trapped in flesh and blood.

There was nothing she couldn't handle.

_Painful._

But if only the blasted metal thongs she wore didn't ride up so much!! The one thing she couldn't handle, and she wore it every day!

Fran sighed, this was going to be a long journey…

* * *

_Right, I promise, Penelo is next._


	6. Apples and Oranges

_Whoo! This is a biggun!_

_Dedicated to Feeny and landis icelilly. She wanted a Larsa or a Larsa/Penelo fic, but... Sorry!_

* * *

A tourist watched the sight unveiled before him. A pair of golden pigtails, fairly glowing in the desert sun, twirled and whipped as their owner made the final rounds of her dance. Gracefully, almost like she were performing in a ballet instead of moving like an angel tapped in her confining clothing, she made a last leap, a roll, a twirl, and brought her feet down in a natural semi-curtsey.

The crowd applauded, Gil and the occasional flower (And even a proposal of marriage, which the dancer conspicuously failed to hear) were thrown at the impromptu stage. Some nodded and walked away after tossing what little they had in their pockets. Others stayed and applauded, shouting for more.

Others still just cheered, draped in whatever they could find (Well scrubbed, mind you, because even _they _had their pride) and beaming at the girl they had known since the day of her birth.

Dalmasca still had its poor, but the dance, the music, the girl… in these; they could forget their sorrows, even for a day.

A pair of men, drunk on imported Mandju, traded blows as they fought for the rights to approach her. By the time the palace guard pried them apart from each other, the dancer had gathered up her money, paid the musicians, and skipped away.

It was had to tell if Penelo knew the effect she had on people around her. Maybe it was best she didn't know, it was a power held by few, and the moment they knew of it, the power began to corrupt them.

Penelo _glowed_ with an ethereal radiance, and it was hard to avert your eyes. It was a youthful charisma, a power not to ever be underestimated.

--

Back in the small apartment that she shared with her friend and fellow troubadour, Penelo opened the bag and scattered the results on a small table, counting the money first off and putting the edibles to another side.

She whistled at the amount, nearly 1,200 gil had been thrown her way, apparently the festival season was drawing tourist from the wealthier Archades. She made a mental note of that and turned to the slightly larger pile of goods. A fresh daisy (And she beamed as she remember the shy little boy the waddled up to her and pressed it into her hand. She had kissed him on the cheek, making him fairly shine with embarrassment and a smidgen of hope) was placed into an old potion bottle, topped with water.

A trio of roses followed into another container, the slightly curved Ether bottles reflected the light from the liquid within and made the roses perk up. They would stay that way for at least another month, or until the Ether evaporated.

Other things went into the iced compartment (Courtesy of the Ice Magicite that her flatmate brought home with him on his travels). A loaf of bread, a long piece of Salami and jerked cockatrice, Vegetables and…

Penelo stared at the two pieces of fruit on the table, an apple and an orange. Closing the compartment door, she walked over to them and watched them in silence, her eyelids closed slightly in response to the sun glare from the window.

_After six months, I still can't choose._

She considered the orange. Small, juicy, an exotic flavour, the outside was tough but you could candy it. You could juice it, peel it, breathe in the scent and bask in it…

But sometimes it would be sour. You would travel for hours to the land where it was grown, and it would spray mist into your eyes and make you weep until the poison was washed away.

Penelo sighed, she hadn't thought the new Emperor would fall to the stress _so soon_.

But when you got past that, it was new and exciting. You could bite into it, remove it from its fleshy skin, see it in a completely new light.

Penelo giggled, she remembered when Larsa had taken her dancing, expecting him to try and teach her to waltz. How surprised he had been, to find her bribing the court musicians and wrapping her body to his in a fierce tango that opened his mind to the pleasures of a woman's scent and touch…

And through the ball, their laughter had rung through the halls of marble and warmed the cold stone that had frozen under the layers of bureaucracy.

Later that night as they toured the gardens, he had asked about home, asked about things that had nothing to do with politics and everything to do with _her_. He _noticed_ her, something that the orphan found difficult to believe until the night wrapped itself over and she found her lips locked with his, tracing his soft, cultured mouth with her own. Arms slowly found their way around each other, but something in the back of her head screamed _He's an emperor, he's so young and this is wrong, wrong, wrong!!_

She didn't pay attention as she slipped her hands under his shirt. Doubt and fear could wait, tonight was her one chance to indulge. She felt his lips make a line down her throat and the only thing she could make out beyond the soft heat building within her and the purring of her own throat…

_His hair smells like oranges_.

But then he had to return to his chambers after what seemed like only a few minutes (The bruising on her lips and collarbone said otherwise), and prepare for meeting the Rozzarian embassy when the sun rose. One last, longing gaze… and he was gone.

Come the sunrise, so was she. She brought with her gifts, a few fine memories and a lingering sense of betrayal that she couldn't quite figure out.

Vaan was there to greet her as she stepped off the airship, babbling about how he'd missed her and how close they were to their new airship and what kind of name would suit it and how much do you think we should spend and…

It didn't stop, but she was still glad to see him. Vaan would still be here, this was their home.

Penelo shook her head and looked over the apple. A mixed red-green hue still coloured it, it hadn't fully ripened, but that was the way she enjoyed it. It was easier to bite into, carried that little joy of ravishment. She didn't need to hide anything when she ate an apple.

It was larger, easy to recognize and had a reputation for being a forbidden fruit, something that enfused the devourer with a knowledge that could destroy a god. Something hard to imagine from such a common fruit.

You could carry an apple everywhere, you could do anything with an apple, you could bake it, chew the skin for fresher breath, mash it into sauce, dry out slices and enjoy them as a snack…

And the best bit was, they would thrive anywhere. A bowl of apples was the common symbol for _home_ no matter where one came from. Penelo, an orphan for most of her life, felt that having a home and a family was the best thing they could have.

She giggled, sometimes… you had to wait for apples. They would be a little green and far too immature to be enjoyed, so you left them alone for a while. You'd check up on them, prune the branches, so everything you did meant that the final product was a keeper.

But the best thing was, no matter how much you changed it, an apple would always be an apple.

She'd grown up around them, she'd known them all her life, how they sprouted, how they matured, the different kinds, how sometimes you could see rot setting in and there wasn't a thing you could do… But the apple that belonged to her… that couldn't spoil. She wouldn't allow it.

She grimaced, though. How long would it take before the apple grew ripe? Why wait for the harvest when another crop was ready to be picked? She could have it all, had she stayed with the orange. Fame, power, wealth…

_But not a family. The orange would be forever closed to you, no matter what you did. You would be a target, destroyed within and without by forces you don't understand, and never will._

Penelo almost cried. Her options were fast dwindling; time was running out, if she made a wrong move…

She sighed, this wasn't her forte. She had always thought that she would be free to choose, but choice was never so simple. Best she stuck with what she knew, that was the kind of person she was.

She smiled, then. No matter how much she loved oranges, their flavour, their texture, their fluidity… she would stick with what she knew, and what she knew the best were apples.

She put the two fruits in a bowl, just as the door opened and a smiling Vaan bustled in, carrying a sack of gil from his exploits in Giruvegan.

She'd missed him, she knew that.

So therefore, it wasn't really anything of a surprise when she greeted him, not with a voice, but with her lips, her arms, her body, kissing him gently on the lips as he stood stock still in shock.

When she pulled away, his cheeks were slowly blooming scarlet and he stammered while she smiled sweetly.

"P-Pen… what… how… w-why?"

She looked at his coloured face, thinking of how much he resembled an apple, put a finger to his lips, said a few words, and dove into a loving kiss that he returned with zeal once the shock wore off.

As they weakened and he pinned her to the wall, arms roving and electing gasps from the girl his heart belonged to, he could still hear that one sentence, and the part of the brain that wasn't quickly losing blood made up its mind to ask her about it later.

'Do I need a reason?'

_It was the scent of oranges that carried her away…_

… _But it was the taste of apples that told her she was home._

* * *

_Right! Reviews and suggestions!_


	7. Five dangerous words

_Right! Somebody wanted a Larsa-centric? Here it is. I'll do another Vaan-centric later. You hear that, Feeny? No running me over with a steamroller until I get that done, y'hear?!_

* * *

Larsa watched as Basch's injured body was catered to under the eyes of some of the finest healers the Academy had to offer. The young emperor rubbed his eyes as the hour chimed on the great bell, four half-strokes.

Was it four of the morning already? Larsa couldn't shake the feeling that he should have approached the Magister's brother in a place where he couldn't have done too much damage to himself.

But how was he to know that a five-word question led to his guardian's eyes near popping out of his head, wobbling and missing his next step on the stairwell, tripping and rolling down the great marble treads that bridged the personal quarters with the solar?

Speaking of Solar, apparently the warrior's Solar Plexus had been hit, resulting in a concussion of a fairly serious nature. But the medics assured him that no permanent damage had been done, but for the sake of Heaven, _please don't disturb him more than absolutely necessary._

Larsa sighed on the seat, gratefully accepting a cup of warm meadmilk from a nameless maid, nodding and thanking her politely. Truly, when he thought of his status as Emperor, who would believe that catering to bodyguards was one of the many duties he had to uphold?

Then again, his loyal (Though not as loyal as he'd like) subjects (And not nearly subjective enough) had been of little assistance either. When he'd asked them the exact same question, he'd got the same reactions. Nervous fidgeting, cold sweats, embarrassed flushes (Not particularly from the women, either, so perhaps it had nothing to do with what he thought it meant…) and a single piece of advice: "Ask Gabranth."

But what was the point of that? Basch, despite his many years of loyal service to Dalmasca and himself, had done a few things that had rather diminished him (Not really, but it was fun to have blackmail!). The most prominent, unfortunately, involved an Ashe coronation 'plushie', Basch in a spectacularly cuddly mood, and half-asleep murmurs of 'Plushie… I love you so… I'll never leave you…'

Who knew what Trauma an emperor may be exposed to in future years? It certainly wouldn't equate to that moment of absolute, mortifying terror.

And so Larsa waited. He was a patient person. He went to sleep, woke up, signed treatise, met with delegations, oversaw the formation of the new senate…

… busy. Very busy. Tiring, too. Larsa let his thoughts wander to the lady Ashe and Lord Al-Cid's father. How did they cope? He must remember to write… as he so dearly loved to do. He couldn't remember when he'd got into the habit of writing, that simple act of taking his thoughts and placing them straight to the sheet before him, no botheration in dressing up the words…

He shook his head, clearing his mind. There were better things to do…

_The pirates at Barfolheim had finally elected a new Pirate King, or Queen, as the case may be. D'java Sous, the Spearmaiden, had shown enough tenacity, cunning and brute power to achieve a near unanimous vote (Or whatever passed for a vote in the Pirate ports) and emplace herself at the throne. _

_There were many things to consider, shall the city of Archades officially recognize the Port cities as single states, or bargain with D'java and her cohort in an attempt to solidify them into a reignship? The first would cause power struggles and a potential civil war, while the other would be seen as a symbolic destruction of the freedom the pirates cherished so. Either way, it was a matter of great delicacy…_

_And what of Dalmasca? Or of Rozzaria? Would they follow or publicly denounce the move? Ashelia could be trusted upon to support the emperor, but the Rozzarians were less predictable. Such a split could lead to renewed tensions. While the chances of them breaking out into open hostilities over something so trivial, it was best to discuss first, to consort, to plan…_

Larsa, so deep in thought, did not hear the door open beside him. Nor did he notice when a stunningly beautiful woman dressed in leather and cloth sat herself beside him. He paid no mind, and noted with a certain detachment that her ebony skin seemed to mimic Reddas' almost to a tee. He would have to enquire if they were a relation, in the most discreet possible-

"No, we weren't related."

A small laugh, a smile that he didn't see. She was at least ten years his senior, perhaps twenty summers. Certainly young enough to be doubted in leadership.

Larsa snorted, he felt that he should bite out his own tongue. Who was he to judge on age and skill? Pot calling the kettle black and all that...

"People of our hue are rare, here. It's a common assumption, though a fairly degrading one."

Her voice was strong, cultured, and very, very self confident. Larsa couldn't help but wonder if she sung, was that natural for those with the voices?

"You did not show for the meeting."

"My bodyguard-" Larsa began to speak, but she interrupted again.

"You have many, to worry about one. I understand, though. Unlike some, I didn't 'believe Ondore's lies'. You've been through enough, kinship and compassion need no explanation." She laughed again, though patronization was clear in her tone.

Larsa blinked. 'Believe Ondore's lies'? That would mean…

"If you are attempting to blackmail-" he begun, but he was cut off again.

"Perish the thought! Honour among thieves, hmmm?" Again with the laugh. Larsa couldn't tell if she was of good humour or simply an excellent actor. Considering her status as a politician, the latter was certainly a high probability.

Silence reigned again, the two leaders relaxed slightly outside the room of the Guardian. Larsa sparred a glance at the new Queen of Barfolheim, noting that her long hair had been shorn of it's normal ponytail and had been braided and washed until it seemed you could lose your fingers inside a warm, flowing cloak of shadows…

Larsa looked away, trying to clear his mind of such thoughts. It certainly didn't help that such things had been plaguing his brain of late, or the fact that his voice box may have been injured during his training session that morning. It was a simple voicing of opinion, his wounds and bruises had been cleared up, but his voice suddenly broke out of his control and jumped an octave. The senate members simply looked at each other and laughed; such embarrassment!

He snuck another look. Her eyes were closed, her face set in a small smile that looked like she was in prayer. He checked her hands, they were braced against the seat. How did she look so serene in these cold halls? How did she stay so calm when her peoples were known as scoundrels, could dethrone her in an instant… there was no control in her life, how did she keep those soft eyelids closed? How soft were they? What would it be like to kiss those…

Larsa groaned in frustration. He couldn't stop it, couldn't control it, and she knew this! She had to!

"Gil for your thoughts?"

Again with the voice…

"_Him_. He has a lot of secrets that need to be kept."

"I can imagine."

"His relationship with the princess, his tendency to put his helmet on the wrong way round, his obsession for sleeping with a soft toy- I'm sorry, is something the matter?" He asked with curiosity as she doubled over and cluched her sides, her shoulders shaking.

After D'java stopped laughing, she sighed and looked over at the young king.

"I think, Lord Larsa, that you have much to learn about the intrigue of the court. You're giving away dangerous information to someone-"

"Who already knows of his… shall we say… prior existence?" Larsa interjected.

"Touche."

With that, she leaned back, arching herself to remove the kinks in her spine. Larsa gulped and looked away hurriedly, hoping against hope that she hadn't him starring at her che-

"Lord Larsa."

Looking back at her face, Larsa sighed in resignment. This was going to be a long day. "Yes?"

"What did you do?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You did something that made a trained warrior to lose his footing on a solid surface. Impressive." She tapped the side of her nose, "Therefore, one must assume that it was an attack of a mental or magickal nature. So, pray tell, what did you do?"

"I asked him something trivial." Larsa sighed, "And I have no idea why it caused such a hubbub."

"Oh? Try me, oh trivial-minded _Hamo'diven._" She teased, using the _E'ein_ word for 'Shining one' as a gesture of mild respect. Larsa found himself finally glad for all those days of tedious briefing.

"It's simple. Miss Sous-"

"Call me D'java, everyone else does." She smiled, ruffling his hair.

Larsa lost his train of thought as his forehead felt the warmth from her fingers as they brushed past it. _Cursed brain!_

Clearing his throat, Larsa started anew.

"Miss D'java…" He ventured.

"Mmmmhmmm?" She leaned back and gave him a curious look.

"… How, exactly, are babies made?"

Silence, then laughter. The halls rang with laughter, rich and full of an outlandish energy.

"Tell you what, come see me in a few years, and I'll give you a personal demonstration!" She giggled, and walked off.

Grumbling at once again being foiled, Larsa made up his mind and finally strode off to the library. Basch be damned, he was getting to the bottom of this…

--

The book was found, read back to front, as closed.

Larsa sat bolt upright, breathing strangely and rigid as a plank.

"So th-th-th-th-that's how…"

He gulped.

"And when she said personal demonstration…"

The young emperor simply sat there, his cheeks slowly turning red until his entire face burned.

And later, when his voice broke for the sixth time that day, he simply went into his room and bonked his head against the wall for good measure.

Larsa was a cultured boy, but there were times when he wanted to tell the world how he felt, in the harshest way possible…

Ah, and he had just the words. He screamed them at the top of his lungs, causing stirs in the court as they rebounded through the corridors.

"FUCKING HORMONES!!"

* * *

_First crush, eh? Gotta hate 'em. Review, and I shall write!_


	8. The most wonderful drink in the world!

_Okay! This isn't really anything. I'm just posting this to make you laugh while I get some inspiration._

* * *

"AAAAAAAARGH!!"

"Oh, shut up."

Ashe moaned in frustration and placed her head in her hands, resisting the urge to grab something with an edge and remove whatever produced the Let's-get-roaringly-drunk-and-impress-the-women-with-pelvic-gestures-hormone from the three men-… Correction, _two_ men and one boy in front of her.

_  
Things…_ Ashe mused, _Are definitely going to get worse before they get better._

She laid out the possible routes to take in the morning, ranging from tormenting those still hungover to kicking them off a cliff. Both would involve screaming, and that suited the slightly temperamental Going-to-be-Queen-BELIEVE-IT just fine.

But strangely enough, it wasn't the idiot boy with the moppy blond hair who came up with the idea of boozing up for fun in Jahara village. Rather, it was the _Viera_ of all people who suggested that a little alcohol would allow everyone to work off the stress of the past few days.

So Vaan bought as much Bacchus Wine as he could carry (And Balthier swore that their adrenaline levels wouldn't spark off the berserk state so often attributed to the liquor) and Penelo stocked up on willow bark, boiling it and treating it for the morning after. Apparently the stuff was meant to be chewed, aiding in pain relief. Ashe didn't believe a word of it…

--

"H-hey, guys, lookit me!" Vaan cried as he perched on the top of the thick-hided teepee used to cover the public toilet. His eyes were unfocused, his entire body seemed to personify 'Wobble', his words slurring like a Moogle on Moogle-nip.

Yes, our favorite Tidus/Zidane/Cloud/Rikku(?)/Gippal-clone was downright shitfaced.

"SWEET MOTHER OF LIGHT LOOK AT HIM!! WOOOOOW!!" Balthier pointed over at the boy, leaning back to better accommodate the view.

He didn't stop leaning back. He was by the cliff-edge. It was quite a drop. The Garif were well amused at the multiple cries of pain that emerged as the Sky pirate rolled down the rough face of the rock.

Balthier was… somewhat less amused.

In the meantime, Penelo downed another bottle (Fran had pointed out that she had drunk at least twice of her young counterpart, but acted half as inebriated. Ashe wasn't so sure.) and checked Vaan up. Or checked him out. She couldn't tell which of the four Vaans she liked the best. Maybe the one in the Sombrero...

"Y'know, Vaaaaaaaan. Thing. Yeah, him. Heehee, Vaan. Death by… VAAN!! Runover by a… VAAN! Hit and VAAN!! Beef au VAAN!! Heeheehee!!" Penelo collapsed into a fit of giggles, clutching her sides and accidentally knocking over Basch's half filled bottle.

"AAAAAARGH!!" The drinker of aforesaid bottle yelled, not for the first time. He'd been screaming at nothing in particular for at least an hour.

"Shut up!"

"Hey! Hey guys! You know what to do if you make a fudgey in the long?" Vaan called out from his perch on the tent. Several of the masked peoples who inhabited the village recognized the gleam in his eyes and slowly backed away from it.

"AAAAAARGHDoTellAAAAAARGH!!"

"Shut. UP."

"You light a match! Watch!"

Vaan slipped from his footing as he searched for something that he didn't carry, smacking into the dusty soil and lying there for a good minute as the three women smirked at his moronic actions.

Finally, he came to a conclusion…

"Guess I'll practice my magic!"

"Practicing magic? Whilst drunk? This should be amusing…" Fran mused, running her long finger over the rim of the bottle before taking another swig.

"Firaga! YAY!!"

"Oh hell!"

The tent exploded in a flurry of white fire, the resounding explosion sending pieces of fabric to fly far into the air, turning into a mockery of the new fangled fireworks that the Kingdoms were starting to produce.

"AAAAAAAARGHOooohprettyAAAAAAARGH!!"

"Again Again!!" Penelo was bouncing up and down on her feet as Vaan spun in circles to celebrate the carnage. In the distance, a Garif began estimating the cost of the damage. It just went to show, even when all you own is a bunch of leather and horns, somebody's gonna figure out how much it's worth.

Balthier had managed to climb back up the cliff face, only to have a piece of flaming cloth bid hello to his head and fare-thee-well to his eyebrows.

_And down he went…_

Ashe simply kept her face buried in her hands, groaning at the idiots that surrounded her.

"I think I have a hypothesis to… all this." She sighed, turning to Fran, who barely nodded.

"I've noticed that when men are cut, they bleed, yes?"

Another nod.

"And their blood is… a little thicker, maybe a little slower, correct?"

Thoughtful pause. Turn to watch Vaan and Penelo dancing the doosie-doe around the flaming wreckage. Smirk. Turn to Basch still yelling at the moon. Wince. Turn back to Ashe. Nod.

"And you've heard the saying: 'As thick as a brick sandwich'?"

'What-are-you-smoking-and-where-can-I-get-some?' Look. Nod.

"Exactly! So, we can conclude that men do not have blood running through their veins…"

Raised eyebrow.

"… Rather, their body courses with a thicker liquid compound that I have hereby dubbed 'Stupidium'."

Snort. Chuckle. Nod.

"Yeah. Couldn't be sober and not think that oooooone up, right?"

Polite pause. Cautious nod.

"Huzzah!"

Nod. Watch Princess fall asleep. Watch Pirate-partner climb back up cliff, glare daggers at aforesaid partner when he takes advantage of Supine princess to look up skirt. Kick partner down cliff when stares don't cease. Wince as 'AAAAAARGH' starts up all over again. Snigger at two youngest members having a headbutting contest. Wince as Penelo wins. Wince again when Vaan falls into hole generated by explosion. Wince once more when one realizes that aforesaid hole leads to sewer.

Shrug, drink one last bottle, curl up in bedroll, grin. Mission Completed.

--

Everyone awoke.

Ashe slapped Balthier for looking up her dress. Balthier slapped Vaan for laughing. Penelo slapped Vaan to 'be a part of the team'. Vaan, in confusion, slaps himself. Fran sighs.

"AAAAAAAAARGH!!"

"SHUT UP!!"

Everyone pauses to stare at Basch.

"Guy's gonna need a lozenge."

--

"Your bill, Lady Ashe." The Garif from the night before points at the slip of paper.

"I. AM. NOT. IN. THE. MOOD."

"… Consider it on the house." He whimpers, pulling back from either an unexploded PMS or a hangover.

"Didn't I blow up the hou-"

"Vaan, shush!"

"Let it never be said that the Garif hospitality failed you."

"Well, actually…"

"Balthier, _No-one_ would have been impressed by those pickup lines."

"I'm simply saying-"

"Everyone, shut up!"

"AAAAAAARGH!!"

"You too!"

"How long is this going to-"

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!!"

"Oh for…"

"ARGH!!"

"Could you sto-"

"ARAARGH!!"

"Basch fon Ronsenburg!"

"ARGH?"

"Shall we play a game?"

"Argh."

"Make a sentence from these words. Damn. Face. Your. Shut."

"Argh. Argh. Argh. Argh. Argh? ARGH!!"

"Heh heh heh… Good one!"

"Very Clever."

"Nice, Ashe!"

"Argh."

Ashe smiled. All was good for now.

* * *

_You know the drill by now. Oh, and If you do Kingdom Hearts, I've got some other stories that need love! Help me out, people!_


	9. Weakness

_Rasler/Ashe? Here 'tis. Thanks for the reviews, guys!_

* * *

Ashe had never been one for tragedy, despite her companion's claims to the contrary. She didn't believe in the final absolution of death to answer the troubles of life. Taking poison over a dead lover was nothing short of _weak,_ and weakness was intolerable, most especially in herself.

When Rasler died, it had been pain after pain after pain. They'd grown up together, spending summer after summer at the villas doted along the Nalbina coast, playing among the palms, basking in the warm sun, fighting the growing sense that everything was slowly crawling up on them and their innocence would be terribly, _terribly_ brief.

She remembered sharing mango slices with him, learning to dance under the eye of their tutor (_I can't remember his name anymore…)_, slowly and with the grace that defined Ivalian nobility. She remembered her laughter and his embarrassed chuckle when he learned that he'd taken the woman's position, and then the tutor had guffawed a little and swapped them over.

She remembered blond hair bouncing as he started to learn of battle-art, riding a Chocobo in leather armour. She remembered his wooden blade twisting to parry, to feint, to riposte as Basch went through the motions. She could do little more than study calligraphy, learn of protocol and practice enunciation, but he had always made it a point to teach her what little he knew. She was glad of it; such lessons had saved her life in the times to come.

It was a bond that neither of them could clarify, nor feel the need to. It was a… _content_ friendship.

The years went on, and Ashe began looking out at the world. Rumblings in the court suddenly began to subsist her need for information, both for her and her country.

Rasler saw it a little later. Suddenly, all talk focused around the larger nations; rather than the latest trading law to be billed through the council, speculations on military strength and chokepoints were the majority that flowed from older mouths. Faces once refined in serenity cracked, unearthing the lower layers of terror resplendent.

And so, Ashelia B'nargan Dalmasca found herself betrothed to her childhood companion.

All for the ploy of an alliance that wouldn't stand. She knew, her father knew, everyone in the court knew that if war truly came, neither Dalmasca nor Rasler's homeland would survive unscathed. The alliance, if anything, was a token gesture of defiance to their would-be aggressors.

But when Rasler kissed her, his soft eyelids tickling her as he smiled through the meeting of mouths, she had no reason but to at least give him a smile of her own.

It was painful, then, to marry. By joining with Nabradia, Dalmasca had saved its own princess from the death penalty. By locking her lips with him, she had signed his potential death warrant. She would be saved from the politics of war.

In her stead, Rasler would be offered as the cats-paw, a symbolic death to protect their people from the wrath of a greater empire notorious for its treatment of the subjugated. What was one death to many? It was a fine sacrifice from the prince, and it was a role he would gladly accept.

Ashe, however, found it impossible to find that her husband who made love to her until she could barely breathe from exhaustion and ecstasy, who comforted her when the grueling trials of war-make began to surface, who loved her truly and completely…

… would die. All because of her.

It was a burden, and like all burdens, she knew it would either strengthen her or bring her to her knees.

So when she saw Rasler on his podium, giving his peoples the hope that had fueled him for so long, she did not turn from the sudden weight on her heart. Rather, she looked at him as he proclaimed courage and fealty to the masses, tears running unbidden down her face. She would not look away, she would not dare do him such a dishonour.

She would not show weakness to the boy, the _man_ she loved. He deserved that much.

That was the final day she saw him alive. The last thing she remembered was a kiss to her forehead, his voice intoning _Be strong for me, and for our people_, and then he was gone.

It was then that she planned for strength to return. And as she watched the skies grow dark as his airship flew into the dusk, she bustled with a new vigour, starting with a message to her uncle…

--

Ashe did not believe in tragedy. There was only weakness and strength. There wasn't anything left to believe in.

But when she looked at Penelo and Vaan, and wondered what would have occurred had she and Rasler been born as they, she felt she was allowed one last tear for her fallen husband, shed in a tragic weakness.

* * *

_What next, boys and girls?_


	10. Private time

_This one's just silly and involves a little bonding among the same-sex groups. No pairings, none!_

_Rated 'T' for boobie-speculation and insufficient cover. Not much. I might write a chapter on that, with more inspiration._

* * *

"Vaan, did you give them the message?"

"Just told them."

"Excellent. Very well, crew, time to break out the trappings of civilization!"

It was a pleasant afternoon on board the Strahl, cruising towards Archades for a quick running of loot. The three male members having come to a consensus that if the women were going to treat them like Immature (And Blond), Lecherous (And swarmy) Traitors (Who were _ooooold._), then they at least had the right to a day when they could act like one, yes?

And so the plan was set. Balthier would stock the Ice box in one of the storage rooms with Dalmascan Ale and Archadian _Ri'sure_, clear the space in the room to place couches, blankets and as many pillows as he could carry without sneezing. Basch was to supply his prized collection of '**When there's a war on**' pornography (And god forbid anyone ask how he'd kept a hold of it from his imprisonment), and Vaan would come up with some kind of cover to deter the women from intruding on their social event.

Surprisingly, the boy went for the truth.

"Uh, guys, is it okay if we have the back room all to ourselves until we get to Acrhades? We're just gonna be drinking beer, playing cards and comparing the tits in Basch's special magazines for about seven hours. That cool with you?"

Granted, it probably worked because it sounded too outrageous to be true!

However, it also meant that Vaan started the little gathering with a split lip and a puffy eye. Kill the messenger and what-not. So, in all irony, the first can was popped not to be drunk, but to pour the ice-cold liquid all over his face.

"Who's up for Seej Poker?" Basch grinned, flipping a deck of cards.

"Count me in!"

"Vaan, do you even know how to play?"

"Yeah, you just keep putting cards down until you get two that match, then you slap your hand on it and yell snap!"

"…"

"Wrong game?"

"Just… don't… talk. We'll teach you as we go. And you, oh egotistic leading man?"

"I'm an actor, Basch. It stands to reason that I'm an ace at poker."

"Clothes or money?"

"Huh?"

"Both."

"Wild or Full-draw?"

"Um, what are you…"

"Wild. I hope your gil isn't the traumatic sort."

"How so?"

"It's about to get intimately acquainted with my pocket."

"Big words, little actor. I'll live to see you eat them yet."

"When I've taken your quid, that's all you're going to eat."

"Can we play now?"

Sighing, Basch dealt the cards on a little table, keeping half an eye on Balthier as he folded, cut and sent the cards flying.

After a few practice rounds teaching Vaan to play, the game began in earnest.

--

"25 Gil."

"I'll see you thirty."

"Call."

"Call."

"Up Bangaa, four rounds."

"Call."

"I'll raise you five."

"Kiss that five goodbye."

"Touchy tonight, are we?"

"Call."

"Alright, gents. Flip them!" Balthier called out, revealing his royal Halberd on the table.

"Occuria, Hume, Viera, Seej, Moogle. Not bad at all, leading man." Basch mused, revealing his own hand. Five different suits, ranging from one to five, exposed themselves on the table. Balthier's hand was useless against the Straight Onion-run.

Just as he was about to rake in the pot, however, Vaan groaned and laid his cards down.

"It's all one suit and the five ranks, I knew I was wasting my time."

Basch blinked, Balthier coughed, Vaan looked at them innocently.

"Did I win?"

Basch and Balthier shared a look, and pushed the loot towards the boy.

"Beginners luck, Vaan. Don't get cocky."

--

Fran looked to Penelo in the co-pilot's chair, nodding when the girl looked over for approval. She'd done well; if the Hume boy was serious in his quest to achieve sky-piracy, she'd make a fine navigator.

"Well, I can't hear anything from the room. What could they be doing?" Ashe pondered as she walked back into the cockpit, earning only silence for a reply.

Well, not really.

"Isn't it improper for a princess to be listening in at doors?" Penelo teased, running her eyes over the panel in front of her before switching to automatic diagnostic. Getting to her knees and facing Ashe over her seat, folding her arms to rest her head, Penelo gave the slightly out-put Queen-to-be a childish smile.

"It's a poor ruler who can't keep herself well-informed." Ashe responded primly.

"Aye, I would think your skirt would inform you well ahead of any drafts. You truly take all steps to remain aware." Fran remarked, a slim smile crossing his face at the Monarch's indignant huff.

"I… Blast it, Fran; you know I can't comment on your attire without it sounding Specieist! And you, Penelo, you shouldn't be encouraging her!" Ashe floundered, cheeks colouring at the young girl's giggles.

"But it's true! You would easily win the competition for 'Shortest skirt in Dalmasca'! Even the Rosette would be bigger than that overstuffed belt!" Penelo pointed out, a hand over her mouth to stem the laughter as Ashe's jaw dropped.

"But… I… Dalmasca is a hot country!"

"Then why not simply wear nothing at all? I have heard all the men in our group, Larsa and Vossler included, agreeing for that to be a preferable option as opposed to your current garb." Fran voiced, her tone and face devoid of emotion. Penelo collapsed on the chair, hugging her aching sides as the laughing continued.

Ashe simply set her mouth into a line and narrowed her eyes.

"Those men are going to be on the rough end of a Royal decree when I am reinstated, you mark my words."

--

"Beginners luck never lasts long, remember that!" Balthier repeated, twenty minutes later. Sweat began slicking down his brow as he wrapped a blanket around himself, clad only in his undergarments.

Basch faired little better. Seeing as he really only owned three articles of clothing, as opposed to Balthier's innumerable gloves and tassels, he'd lost his clothes with great haste. Fortunately, Vaan allowed him to carry the potholder-lookalike on his chest to cover his 'essentials'.

It wasn't nearly big enough; this didn't comfort the knight in the least.

Vaan, meanwhile, simply sat behind a growing mountain of valuables, which included Balthiers rings, Ashe's coronation tiara (Something else Basch had somehow acquired), her wedding ring and the deeds to the Burnansa Family estate of the Phon coast.

And he still didn't know _how_ he was winning, it was infuriating!

It was the face, Balthier told himself, the damned idiot face that didn't tell you what he was thinking, simply because he wasn't thinking anything! Incorrigible bad luck!

Basch simply sighed and folded.

"I'm out; I need to leave before I lose _this._" He motioned towards the potholder.

"Didn't need to see that." Vaan mumbled, not looking up from his cards.

As Basch left the table and grabbed a beer, he cast a look at the fuming Sky Pirate. It seemed he was betting his embroidered under-vest on the rest of his clothes. The boy had been kind enough to allow such a biased wager, the man noted.

"Very well, Rat-slayer, lets see you beat _this!_" Balthier laid down his cards with a triumphant flourish. Five Ranked cards, Five Suits, the unbreakable Ultima finish! Confident in victory, he reached towards his clothes…

Vaan's hand grabbed his, without looking.

"What happens if I have Four Seejs and a Sword-Hume?" Vaan asked innocently.

Balthier gulped.

"That's called the Guided Ram. It's an all-break hand, and possession of that would mean…"

The hand turned out to be exactly that, four Seejs and a Hume of the Sword suit.

"… That you won the round." Balthier finished with remorse clear in his eyes.

Suddenly , Vaan looked over at him, his eyes lit with mischief, void of the childish naivety he'd had at the start of the game.

"I lived on the street for seventeen years, guys, and you actually thought I'd never played a round of poker?"

Vaan raked in his winnings, pulling bags out of his pockets to store them as the cheated elders watched on in horror.

"I win. Better luck next time!"

--

"Maybe they're having some sort of burping competition?"

"Penelo, _please._ Basch would never… I'm _sure_ he wouldn't… I mean… Hmmm." Ashe paused, finger to her lips in thought.

"They'd have passed out from the fumes if they had…" Penelo mused.

"So they kill themselves from the gas and we didn't hear or smell them doing it. Everybody wins." Fran said silently, the others laughing at the expense of the men in the back.

--

"Wow! Check that out!"

"Mmmm… Definitely a fine figure of a woman." Balthier nodded, "You have good taste, thief. Look at the Airship motor she's polishing, I think that's a straight eight…"

"I think I _have_ a straight eight!" Vaan grinned, his face falling when nobody laughed.

"Feni Haer'Dinan, right?" Basch asked from the other couch, not looking up his issue of 'Bows and quivers'.

"Yeah…"

"Implants. I had the chance to test them myself after the Galban fete five years ago." Basch muttered from his side of the couch, ignoring the shocked stares from the other two men.

"Did she have any frie…"

"Phoen Divo introduced me to her when I was escorting her across the Estersand, quite a while ago."

"Pho-"

"Centrefold, Special edition 46."

"Ah. And by escort, you mean…"

"I'll tell you when you're older."

"Oh, har har."

--

"I don't suppose they _are_ comparing breasts, are they?" Ashe thought out loud, her face somewhat nervous.

"I don't think they would…" Penelo reassured her.

"These _are _the same men who commented that Ashe would look better wearing nothing at all…" Fran pointed out.

"Oh…"

--

"… and what about Penelo's?!"

"What _about_ them?"

"Exactly! You orphans don't eat right, had I ever told you that?"

"Ha! Penelo doesn't eat, she bites!"

"Get a lead for that one!"

"Rawf Rawf!"

'HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!'

The drink, it seemed, was good. They blacked out not long after, still comparing breasts.

Not theirs, of course. That would be silly.

--

The next morning, as the ship landed, brought many new sights.

Basch covering himself with his bare hands screaming 'Nobody look!' as he scurried to his room was one. Balthier without his ring collection and fancy clothing was another.

Vaan, wearing Balthier's Vest, Basch's pants, and hungover so hard it looked like he'd been hit with a Scourge spell was the next.

Penelo giggled.

Fran snorted.

Ashe wondered why the _hell_ he was wearing her Tiara.

* * *

_If you like Naruto (NaruHina in particular) I've set up a drabble collection on fluff in my authored stories. Check them out!_

_Review, minions! REVIEW!!_


	11. Dark side of the light side

_I was thinking about those Quickenings... Seriously, where does all that power come from?_

_Then I thought about this. Here it is._

* * *

Basch never tells anyone, but when he channels all of his mist into his quickenings, Demons come and whisper in his ears.

Not the metaphorical demons, either. Dark voices, crumbling under reality and as coarse as steel wool, are chanting in his ears as he directs the anti-dark into two globes, or temporarily shatters space, or directs flaming blades through his opponents.

He can't understand them, he doesn't want to. They love the use of his contamination, corrupting the bodies of those he strikes is their butter and bread, so they form the quickenings.

But in the dead of night, when it's his turn to stand watch over the company as they sleep, he holds the souls of demons in his hand, and grins at the night sky.

Power, it seems, has a way of granting vindication. Revenge that he doesn't want to take consumes his mind.

--

Vaan likes to think that every time he generates an explosion, it's fueled by the burning passion that lies within him. Every time the Pyroclasm sets off another flare, it's his will to make the world right that forces the flames to rise ever further.

He thinks that when he raises his hand, the red spiral responds to the call in his heart.

Nobody tells him that he looks a lot like the commander ordering the first Magicite bomb to be dropped in the Second Kiltias war. Not many people make the connection, but Balthier is somewhat skittish whenever he's alone in the same room as the boy.

The Wind from his second quickening is like the currents of air of the city below the bomb going off above it. The tornado, ripping everything apart before…

The Pyroclasm, a burning maelstrom that rips the world asunder, almost silently. It looks like you were staring out the eyes of a young boy, wondering why his mother was gibbering with terror before a sudden void washed over him.

Vaan shivers in the night on his watch, fighting the strange feeling that once; he was an innocent whose entire universe suddenly went white. Memories that aren't his plague his dreams.

--

Fran _knows_ what fuels her Quickenings. Truth be told, it somewhat comforts her that she isn't as distant from the wood as she once thought.

The Feral Strike and Whip Kick attacks are simple to figure out. The rage, the suffering she had to endure from her self-inflicted ostracizion all comes from the little places in the forest home, hating her as she grew outside her bounds.

So when she asks her sister if the wood hates, and her sister replies, Fran sees the real answer in her eyes.

She leaves the wood with certainly stamped hard on her chest, she could barely breathe from the pressure.

Her final technique, though, is one that her blood runs with. The pure chill of the arrogance of her race can shatter. Those shards can slay, each one another Viera just like her who thought the outside wasn't strong enough to resist Viera pride.

Fran knows she'll join them, one day. It's a small price for a long life.

In the night, she tries to make her peace with the wood, and fails miserably. A solace she can never have is what taints her every move.

--

Ashe's techniques are not as pure as she hopes they are.

The fire and lightning belongs not to the holy church in the strictest sense of the word, and it certainly doesn't belong to the earth-aligned Royal Family. Rather, it was forged by the sorrowful ghosts of those who died in the Rebellion's interrogation room, a room she personally supervised.

Her first technique is not a cleansing, but a torture, a cruel mimicry of the holes burned into the feet of those who would defy the church. It did not tolerate treachery, sin, or other misdeed. It purged the spirit of the recipient through pain. Firey lances arose from the ground and quickly widened the wound, the sound of the screams carrying into the land of the dead.

Her second is significant in that it is not subtle. Rather, it represents the many blows used to 'tenderize' somebody before they were interrogated. It was brutal, crude and not deserving of a princess; but it was a necessary evil.

Her final technique brings innovation to the rebel inquisition. At her suggestion, Imperial soldiers would be electrocuted to within seconds of their death, often cooking in their metal armour. The stink of charred human flesh made her wonder just what she was willing to sacrifice in order to bring her country back.

When she watches over her new companions, Ashe wonders if they ever had to forfeit their humanity for their ideals. A purity that she's lost is what she yearns for.

--

Balthier's quickenings are probably the ones least fretted over. He understands that he has nothing to do with the spirits he channels, and that he had nothing to do with the natural disasters that obliterated their former lives.

From the Fires of War to the Floods of the wide Ocean to the treacherous stars themselves, Balthier felt little regret in harnessing the raw hatred those ghosts felt for the world that had spurned them.

He could feel the flames lick at his skin, his ears ringing to the dying screams of children. The pounding in his skull as he felt how it was to drown was nothing new.

But when he looked to the skies and felt his heart clench when he thought a star seemed to be growing larger by the day, Balthier felt regret. He had let fear enter his soul in his need to fend off his opponents.

At night, Balthier twitched as he watched the fire, and cursed fate in all it's forms. A wanderlust that he thought he had is suddenly gone.

--

Penelo is, as well as a fine dancer, a dangerously good actor.

It is from those skills that she convinces the dead children who wander the earth to rise up and protect their 'mother'. She raises a portion of her opponent's energy out of their body in Intercession, and the children arc towards it, screaming for the blood of those who would harm her.

For her second, she strips them of their outer shells and flings them at the foe, their final cries as ghosts are ones of betrayal. It breaks Penelo's spirit little by little as the battles drag on, and the guilt slowly overwhelms her.

For the third, she calls to the children to stop time and spend the eternity playing games with mother.

They do, and she tricks them, shattering the world they created, what they thought could be a heaven.

Penelo lies awake, sometimes, wondering who made a living out of breaking the hopes of children.

In the night, as she watches the horizon, she glances at Vaan and prays that he never asks for children, either adopted or (And she hoped that it one day might be the case) by her womb. A guilt she doesn't deserve now haunts her nightmares.

--

Each one of the party looks at the night sky, holding secrets.

Each believing they were alone in their suffering.

* * *

_Well? More Reviews More chapters!_


	12. Potty Mouth

_I thought it would be fun to change a song for FFXII. That's actually the first thing that got me into this drabble thingy._

_Warning, pretty intense language below. Borders on 'M'. Don't like, don't read._

* * *

_And now we return to your Ten of the clock talk show: Barfonheim Banter. _

'_My friends, the west-side media is at it again; First by the faulty election of the new Emperor, and now they're trying to tell us that the Cerl'bella ice caps are melting! Do they play us for fools?!'_

"In the circumstances, they're simply trying to isolate the fools in their midst such as yourself." The embroidered man at the controls mumbled to himself.

'_And as for the new leader of the uncouth Pirate states, how do you think she got THAT position, eh? Well, let me tell you how she got that position: Affirmative action, that's how! When will the-'_

Balthier grunted and switched off the radio, despairing at what the stations were reduced to in order to keep up the ratings. Freedom of speech was all well and good, but having idiots deliberately trying to stir up the peace without good intent on the public channels was never a good idea.

It was in the early hours of the morning, all the other members of his little troupe sleeping in the cabins out the back while the leading man watched the navigational waypoints slowly vanish as he passed them. It was in these hours that he could relax his mask, though his body would not allow such a slander to obvious greatness.

He checked down the back of the cockpit to find himself alone, and laughed a little. Sometimes, he wanted to sing something that let him be crude, something that let him take a jab at his life.

He patted the controls half-heartedly.

"Just remember, old girl, none of this is true."

He lay back in his chair and tried to summon the lyrics, tried to create something…

… He found it.

"Here we go…"

Balthier tapped his feet to the tune, bobbing his head slightly to enhance the backbeat as his right foot tapped the second counter tune. He sung lightly in a trilling baritone as the words played across his mind.

_No no no…_

_Piece of shit ship, I got a piece of shit ship, That fuckin__' pile of shit, don't know the yaw from dip…  
_

_My ship's a big piece of shit, 'cause the wings are falling off, and the flight stick's fuckin' broken, it falls to bits when I cough…_

Balthier began to grin, letting his teeth show.

_I can't shoot no guns, 'cause the ports are fucking jamming, and the seats springs are fuckin' shot, from where Basch and Ashe keep slamming…_

_(They leave stains on thee cushions…)_

_Piece of shit ship, it blows member hard! A hundred percent crap, built by retard!_

_(Fuck the damn thing!)_

He kept singing, laughing at the absurdity of it all.

_It's got no Harem, only got Penelo and Fran, ones attracted to blonde brats, the other's a god-send to man!_

_(Still fuckin' frigid, though)_

_And it's got no fuckin' chocks, the shit smacks through every hangar, And if I kill a girl when I land on her, chances are I'll never bang her!_

_(Unless he's a fuckin' Necro)_

_Gross._

Balthier was fully head-bobbing now, air-strumming a lute to go with the tune.

_Piece of shit ship… Magicite: my cock can bite! That pile of flying shit!_

_Oh what the fuck did I smoke, what the fuck did I drink, what the fuck made me think that this shit wouldn't stink?_

_Too small for bowling rink, too old to paint pink, but I'm too pimp to buy to the brink…_

… _Ah, fuck it._

The self-styled man was really getting into the tune, now, getting to his feet and grinning insanely.

_Well the Moogle always fucking whines, asking for a raise takes guts, so everytime I turn him down, He kicks me in thee nuts._

_(Pain, pain, pain.)_

_Plus the landing gear's pounded, I gotta use a cardboard box, and the engine rod overheats, so I shift it with my socks._

_(They smell uber bad!)_

_You piece of shit ship! You piece of shit ship! No fuckin' Warranty, no fuckin' Rear-view mirror, no fuckin' mini-bar! Fucking radiator explodes two times out of three, the whole continent thinks I'm a loser!_

_(Vayne! Come gimme a push!)_

_Piece of shit ship…_

Balthier lets out a tremendous breath, and settles back down into the seat. Slowly putting his mask back on, his clothes disheveled and his zippers down from the strains his shifting body took on them. He reaches for a little liquid soap kept underneath his chair to freshen up his face…

So when Fran pops in a few seconds later, inquiring as to the loud noises that woke her up, she sees her Sky Pirate with his pants open, covered in sweat, obviously exhausted and with a suspicious white substance in his hands, she decides she really doesn't want to know.

Balthier, in retribution, pointedly handles the cooking of the Dream Hares a few days later, glaring in Fran's direction.

He is not amused.

* * *

_I wouldn't be, either. Review and suggest!_


	13. Redemption

_I don't know what made me write this. Could be due to the fact that somebody died in front of me yesterday._

* * *

"What will we do with the bodies, sir?"

Judge Mid gave his subordinate a dangerous look, hidden by a think metal helmet, but the waves of hostility rolling off him were clear enough. The young woman stepped back a few feet.

"What does the Codex Mortificum say on the matter, oh inquisitive recruit?" He answered bluntly, the metal confines of his armour adding a sinister echo to his words.

"All heretics of the false god are to be burned to ash, left for the glorious winds of our homeland to shatter their heresy into dust. This will be done after the twelve-fold prayer, the seven-fold chant, the eleven-fold intonation, the-"

"Yes, yes. Fine. Do it. Burn the bodies, raze the cult house to the ground. Purify this place." He grunted, turning on his feet and retreating as fast as he could in a dignified walk. He hated the smell of burning flesh, it was something no amount of conditioning could prepare him for.

That night, Ffarmam took his helmet off, stinking with sweat and polish and traces of sooty fumes, and vowed that the life of a judge was something he'd gladly escape.

A year later, he did. He never looked back.

--

Amalia doesn't like what she does, taking her affinity for black and arcane magicks to the use of the Resistance. There are ways of bleeding a man that can have him begging for the peace of death, and the dangers of infesting their wounds with dark to poison their minds and extract vital information. Guard rosters, security measures, stockpiles, armories…

They were techniques that she found herself naturally endowed with, technicks like Achilles often opened new ways to break her interreges. She would be a Queen, just to her kinsfolk, cruel and terrible to those who opposed her, a monarch of Oak trees and bloody sacrifice.

She could feel a barbaric history nipping at the edges of her soul, and did not focus on the man she was currently infesting with Bio magic. In a momentary lapse of concentration, she forces the bile past his throat, choking him to death before she can reverse the effects.

Reporting the failure to Vostler, she makes her way to her room. The urge to harm others is still large in her mind.

That night, Ashe looked in the mirror, looks at her clothes smeared with blood and ichors and intestinal slime, and vowed that she would regain power for her people, and cease the horrors that she created.

Two years later, she did. She never gives in to the urge again.

--

The Angel of Demons once walked the plains of Ivalice, uncountable bounties placed on her head. Nothing seemed to catch her, though. She would glide through trees, walk over water, and even swim through the earth. And she thirsted, a terrible hunger that took and took and took and left no survivors, only bodies drained of the mist.

She was a killer, and a killer with a grudge. She left no Hume alive, she scorned all males especially, skinning them alive and leaving their flayed bodies to writhe in the dirt, their last breath spent screaming in pain.

The Angel of Demons was once a pure, white-haired Viera, innocent of the world and looking for knowledge untapped by the wood. She got into a tavern, drank a few rounds of Ale, and woke up the next morning in an alley. Bleeding, an aching in her lungs and between her legs, and the indescribable feeling of _violation._

But as she attempted to spear a young man, bemoaning a fate of slaughtering his fellow man, she paused before the final blow was struck by her hand.

This… Balthier… had regret for killing.

She looks at herself that night under the moon, and hopes that someday, she too can feel the regret that he once felt.

And when Fran sees the ruins of Nabudis a year later, a testament to mindless bloodshed, she finally does. She never wanted anything but salvation till then.

--

The Kingslayer looked at his cage, bound in iron and steel and other arcane metals. Nothing short of a three-storey drop would ruin the hold it had on him, and neither would it protect him for his other… restraint.

He did not dwell on the shortcuts that he had taken in his youth; the ancient, forbidden pact with the half-there demons that inhabited the worlds in between. His entire body would not show the black lines under his skin that served as their grisly abodes. Only when he called, would the lines show, and only when his body grew weak did they start to whisper.

And the price of this punishment came in the blood of his father, slain in a bitter duel over nothing more than name-calling and years of resentment.

Somewhere in his body, the soul of the Kingslayer's father resided, doomed to an unending, restless death until Basch himself fell into the maw of the Reaper. Bound to him by the sealed magick of aeons.

That night, Basch looked at the bars of his cage, and vowed to someday convert to the ways of honour once more in memory of his fallen father.

Two years later, he did. He never took his deliverance for granted.

--

Ratsbane trained every day with his brother, any chance that he could. Swinging his wooden blades in hard, straight swipes that whistled the air as it passed. He shared the dream of his older sibling, something that burned brighter with every passing day, something that made him forget his situation, the questionable scraps they ate each day, the rotting clothes they wore, everything.

They wanted to be squires to none other than the legendary Basch Fon Ronsenburg.

They could see the armour that glinted in the morning sunlight. They would train with nobody but each other under the inspiring gaze of their teacher. The world would ring with the stories and growing marvel that were the two Paladins of Dalmasca.

So when Ratsbane's brother leaves to join the army, it's all he can do to stop cheering for him, and to encourage him to impress himself upon the stalwart gaze of their champion.

Weeks pass. The news returns. Eventually, so does what's left of Ratsbane's brother.

Hate. There was nothing more than hate left for the man who tore their dreams asunder, ripped his brother open, cast their reason to strive into the cold waters of fate.

That night, Vaan looks at his blade after wiping rat blood off his sword yet again, and wonders if his hatred for the Kingslayer will ever diminish.

Two years later, it does. He never felt a rage that strong again.

--

The quiet girl walks the streets, and doesn't speak to the men who leer at her from their perches on the side of the road. There's nothing they can say that they haven't said before, nothing they can do, either. Their master would surely kill them if they tried anything, especially as an unmarked virgin fetched an incredible amount on the undermarket. All he needed was the right offer, the right quantity of Gil…

… And the quiet girl would suddenly disappear.

She couldn't stain herself with ink, couldn't write the pain, there was no way to talk about the fear or the misery or the morbid anticipation. She knew all too well that she was an exception in this dark, twisted world-inside-a-world, and that her bringing anyone into her dark secrets would turn them into carrion for the crows above her.

She delivers the parcel of Zombie Powder to the doorman, who takes it roughly and throws her payment at her face, bruising her forehead with unyielding metal. That was today's meal taken care of. Her parents had left her with nothing but memories, true…

… But they had also left their debts, and there was no way Migelo's Wage could pay them off. She did what she could.

Penelo looked in the mirror that night, and prayed for a way to escape.

Two years later, she did. She never felt more relieved.

* * *

_Review, please. I need to be acknowledged._


	14. Freudian Slips

_Sorry it's late, I'm just having trouble finding inspiration. So it's devolved... a little. Based off real life experiences! (With reversed gender roles, of course.)_

* * *

"A locked chest?"

Balthier turned to Fran, irritation clear in his eyes. "Can't you simply magick it open?"

"The lock itself is crafted of nethicite, only physical manipulations will allow it to open." His partner replied.

The party had been trawling through the Subterra of the Pharos for a few hours, now. The constantly appearing monsters were beginning to wear thin on everyone's patience, as well as the usually cheerful conversations between the two youngest members. Ashe was currently tended to her supposed guardians wounds, inflicted not long before by the Phoenix in one of the large halls hidden behind a Fool's Facade.

Balthier grunted in amusement as he saw that her 'laying on hands' appeared to be little more than projecting white magicks while using the excuse of 'Minimal atmospheric contamination' to grope the older man as he lay sleeping.

"Well then, I guess this is the time for our resident thief to... Vaan?"

The streetrat gave him a bored look as he continued searching the walls. "Penelo won that title last night, let her handle it." He sulked.

"How can you win a title like that? What was the contest?" Ashe gave him a confused question as Penelo wandered up to deal with the troublesome container, her hands still soothing (Read: Fondling) her guardian's abdominals.

"We had a contest to see who could steal something that you couldn't actually measure by normal standards." Penelo told them as she jiggled the lock.

"Ah, so you were looking to steal an abstract concept in order to win?" Fran finally looked as though the puzzle was coming together.

"That's it." the young woman nodded.

"So you finally made good on your plan to steal Vaan's virginity?"

"I wish, all I could nab were his ideas on how..." Penelo seized up like she'd been electrocuted, hands flying to her mouth. "Fran!!"

Vaan's eyes bugged out of his head as he stared at the wall. Ashe gave a series of coughs that sounded conspicuously like hysterical laughter, while Balthier shook his head and hid his smirk beneath his hand.

"Ah, you have not been able to, as I believe you said last week, 'Ride him into the sunset'?" Fran cocked her head curiously. Vaan seemed to be undergoing some type of seizure from what appeared to be an acute case of hotfoot.

"F-fran..." Penelo stuttered, her head blossoming with crimson hue and willing the gods to kill her there and then.

"You have yet to 'Dance the no-pants dance', play 'Hide the broadsword', or convert the Vaan into a 'Shaggin' wagon'?" Fran continued.

"Fran... please! Can you not...!" Penelo shivered from extreme embarrassment. Vaan seemed to be faring no better.

"Ah. I apologize, I did not know that the plan where you get Vaan to drink vast amounts of ale and... what was the word? 'Rape'? Yes, you intended to 'rape' him, yes. I did not know that was a confidential matter." Fran shrugged, and made to search the now opened chest (Balthier having stole the lockpicks from a frozen Penelo and opening the chest, laughing quietly the entire while).

"I-FINISHED-CHECKING-THE-WALL-THERE'S-NOTHING-THERE-I'M-GOING-TO-LOOK-OVER-HERE." Vaan said loudly, running out of the room.

"Smooth, Fran." Ashe commented, finally succumbing to giggles.

--

"Vaan, I'm tired."

"Wait a sec'..."

Vaan was busy checking over the flight schedule at the Nalbina aerodrome, oblivious to the fact that not only had he and Penelo been running routines on the Galbana for the month that left them deprived of sleep, but also that Penelo had lost a great deal of her patience from the lack of shut-eye.

"Seriously, Vaan, I want to go to bed."

"Just a sec', okay?"

Penelo grumbled and shifted about on the couch, sure that her hair was a complete mess from the lack of attention, she barely had time to bathe!

"Hang on a sec'..."

"No! Vaan, I don't know about you, but I'm done with 'sec's'! All I've been through for the past month has just been you and secs, unending secs! Sure, it was okay with me for a while, but it just keeps dragging on and on and on and I've had it! From now on, you're calling for no more secs, You're not going to keep me waiting for secs, and we're only going to have secs when I damn well feel like having secs!!" Penelo snapped.

Vaan's mouth dropped to the ground.

"Vaan, please, I'm not angry with you, it's just that... why's everyone laughing?" Penelo scanned the morning customers of the commercial flight to Archades, taking in the looks of shock and incredible amusement.

"What are all you looking at?! Vaan, tell them to stop looking at me!" She moaned in frustration.

"Uh... maybe we should just... go inside to sleep, huh?"

"Nuh-uh, we're going to the baths, Vaan. And we're going to use up the little time left, thanks to your constant secs, to get ourselves clean." She pouted, and Vaan winced again.

As they left the Aerodrome, Penelo went over what she said. A moment later, it clicked.

She suddenly had a massive urge to go to the baths and drown herself.

* * *

_It's short, I know. But hopefully you had a good chuckle._

_Till next time!_


	15. SS Fandom: Part A

_This is part of a twoshot: On board the SS Fandom. The guys are first up, then the girls. Inspired from a little chat a few months ago on the forums._

* * *

**--Black Box #4712 recording--**

**--Time of activation: 0947 hours, third of Solacemonth, year 492 Old Dalmascan--**

**--Time of liftoff: 0953 hours. All readings nominal--**

**--Beginning flight message recordings--**

**--Time: 0956 hours--**

_--Cockpit_-- "Good morning, passengers, you're flying Nabaian airways, on board the Pleasure liner _Fandom_, the only flight where the pilot, crew and plane are all made to be ridden…"

_--Faint sounds of feminine screaming in background--_

"… My name is Balthier, and I will be your pilot today. We are currently cruising at an altitude of two thousand metres, windspeed is fine, nothing but clear skies from here on till our stop. Please, feel free to take advantage of the services we have to offer you, from the restaurant on deck 15 to the massage chamber located on deck 12, there are a broad and varied number of men willing to take your orders."

_--More faint cheering--_

"Sitting beside me today is my co-pilot Irvine Kinneas. Anything on the radar, Kinny?"

"The Cognac is, as always, splendid. If any of you want to tour the inside of the cockpit, we'd be more than willing to share some with you. Till then, enjoy yourselves."

**--Time: 0957 hours--**

_--Muffled slamming is heard from outside the cockpit--_

"Jesus, Irve, are they trying to break the door down?"

"I dunno, but I wish they'd ask before ramming in!"

"Oh, for the love of… IT'S UNLOCKED."

_--Cracking sound, metallic groaning--_

"Did they just punch through the door?"

_--Feminine squeals, loud shout of 'Start tonguing each other' is heard over the commotion--_

"Holy Shit, Bill, they're peeling the door away from the middle! It's like a zombie outbreak! Get 'em out, they've gone mad!"

"My name is Balthier! You distract them, I'll try and… I've got it!"

"Distraction coming up! Hey, girls!"

_--Faint sound of rustling--_

_--Lengthy pause, continuous giggling--_

"Irve, put your shirt back on."

_--More rustling, groans of disappointment, commotion resumes--_

"Balthier, they're almost through! We're gonna die!"

"Here, use this! On three: One… THREE!!"

_--Sounds of foamy hissing, squeals of shock, coughing, hacking etc. Continues for five seconds, followed by sounds of retreat.--_

"Balthier…"

"Yes, oh lowly co-pilot?"

"You expected this, didn't you."

"What makes you say that?"

"Why else would we have _two_ fire extinguishers in the cockpit?"

_--Lengthy pause--_

"In case there were two fires?"

_--Lengthy pause--_

"I have an idea."

"What?"

"I'm going to drink Cognac until that crappy rationalization actually starts to make sense. Care to join me?"

_--Sound of unscrewing cap, pilot-seat recliners sliding backwards--_

"Don't mind if I do."

**--Switching to voice recording--**

**--Voice recorder of Vaan, Junior masseuse, activated--**

**-- Voice diary activated--**

**-- Time: 1010 hours --**

--Sound of mild rushing--

_The first of the customers have started to arrive, Fran the Stewardess left a few seconds ago to investigate the Pilot's Karaoke session over the P.A, they didn't sound that good. _

_Uh oh, one of the girls is looking my way, who made me wear this crappy waiter suit anyway?_

**-- Time: 1012 hours --**

_Well, my first massage. The girl seems to be a little too comfortable with the oiled-back routine, but what the hell, maybe she'll tip me?_

_The ship just bucked, I thought I heard… there it is again!_

--Shrill female tone over P.A: "… 'tting drunk, how do… seven… if those girls try to take advantage of you?!"--

_Shit! The three over by the minibar have that scary look on their faces, they're heading up the stairs to the cockpit, this is bad! So very, very bad!_

--"… on't take your hand off the controls_don'ttakeyourhandoffthe…"--_

Sounds of distress, tinkling noise in the background

_Whoa! Who's driving this hunk of flying pork?!_

--Sleepy sound of irritation--

_Sorry, Miss… uh… Queeny, was it?_

--Slightly more angry tone--

_Ah, I'll remember your name next time. Enjoying your massage?_

--Saucier tone, giggling--

_I-I can't do that! _

--Hushed speech--

_Yes, I am at the age of consent, but that doesn't-_

--Speech--

_Look, I'm not paid to… whatever you wanted me to do to your pet cat!_

--Laughter, Speech--

_Your… whatnow? Why would you want to shave your cat?_

--Giggles, Speech--

_What do you mean I've got it wrong?_

--Speech--

_You can't be serious…_

--Speech--

… _I gotta go, somebody's calling me!_

--Angry shouting, slowly growing silent, sound of heavy running--

_These chicks are nuts!_

**-- Switching to Voice recorder of Basch, Barman--**

**-- Voice diary activated --**

**-- Time: 1015 hours --**

_I've been on a lot of airships, and I have to say, I don't think this one's going to last very long. In the quarter hour I've been on duty, twelve girls have tried to get drinks with false ID, five girls have tried to seduce me; including the Waitress Ashe, most troublesome girl, and twenty girls have asked if there is a secret way into the cockpit._

_To be fair, there is. It's a small maintenance hatch that opens up on the panel of floor 14, just behind the Tray cupboard. Oh my, I happened to have said that out loud, right as I was servicing a small gaggle of impressionable women. I assure you that this has nothing to do with the three bottles of Vintage Cognac that had somehow become lost from my personal collection since takeoff, nor my hidden vindictive nature. I'm sure that the collection of young women are whispering and huddling in a scheming fashion to discuss the latest gowns from the Tchita looms, not wishing to know about the passcode to the hatch, Seven-seven-three-eight. I'll say it again; the passcode to the hatch they are most certainly not interested in is seven-seven-three-eight. _

_Ah, and there they go, most likely to go and enjoy the other services that this ship has to offer, like the spa._

_Heh heh._

_Bastards won't be stealing my drinks after this…_

* * *

_What will happen next? DUN DUN DUN!!_

_Review and gimme suggestions!_


	16. SS Fandom: Part B

_Sorry for the wait, but my shoulder hurts._

* * *

**--Recording resumes--**

**--Location: Cockpit—**

**--Occupants: 2—**

**--High levels of airbourne ethanol detected—**

**--Voice recognition software results: Kinneas, Irvine and Balthier confirmed presences—**

**--Time: 10:50am—**

_Oooooooh, What shall we do with the Drunken Bangaa, what shall you do with the drunken Bangaa, what shall god do with the Drunken Bangaa earlay in 'de mornin'?_

_Chop his tail off and make false sushi, slice off his feet for fake sashimi, poke out his eyes to sham wagashi earlay in 'de mornin'._

_Oooooh, what shall we do with the Stoner Moogle, what shall you do with the Stoner Moogle, what shall Hyne do with the Stoner Moogle earlay in 'de arrrrvo?_

_Grab 'im by the pompom and throw like a Frisbee, dress 'im up in drag an' make 'im kiss me, kick 'im in the dong so 'e can't go pissy earlay in 'de arrrrvo._

_Oooooh, what shall we do we do with the wiped out See-eeq, what will you do with the wiped out See-eeq, what will Ashe do with the wiped-out Seee-eeeq, earlay in 'de evenin'?_

_Cut 'im in the belly for a king-sized pork chop, toss him off Bhujerba for a world-class Belly flop, tie a sail to his back for a first-rate paradrop earlay in 'de evenin'!_

Sounds of raccous laughter, clinking of glasses

**--Recording picks up little else for several minutes—**

**--Recording halts—**

**--**

**--Voice Recording: Diary – Vaan—**

--**Time: 11:17am--**

_Things, I have guessed, are going very badly on this airship. How, you guess? Well, on the surface, everything seems bad, people are wandering around, scared but otherwise not terrified. The services have stopped, we no longer have any water in the hot tubs, the pressure in the bathrooms have gone wonky… And everybody is sporting a massive headache._

_This possibly maybe could be due to the fact that, for the last twenty minutes, the leisure craft; with all its maneuverability of a concrete milkshake, all the buoyancy of the Titanic in Winter and the speed of an arthritic snail on sand… has been flying upside down._

_Yes, oh brainless recording device, you heard me right. At roughly Eleven, the tilt went to the left and didn't stop until everybody fell off the floor-turned-ceiling. Flight-attendant Fran broke out the riot gear (Scythes, pitchforks and flaming torches, standard equipment) and dragged a group of fangirls to help break open the door to the pilot compartment._

_Please, God, all I want from life are three things: More girls than my tongue can cope with, enough money to buy the better part of Dalmasca (Or three seconds of Penelo's time.), and to go on one flight without the sanity of the universe being ripped and sent straight to hell._

_I'm a generous guy; I think I can settle for at least two out of three._

**--Recording ends—**

_--_

**--Voice Diary, Fran—**

**--Time: 11:23 am—**

_So far have been unable to break down the door, like it is covered with some form of metal._

**--11:25 am—**

_It is metal, it seems. Something called Stee-ell. Fascinating._

**--11:26 am—**

_Stee-ell does not melt very well. However, one fangirl has been hospitalized._

**--11:27 am—**

_Neither is stee-ell edible._

**-- 11:30 am--**

_My teeth hurt._

**-- 11:32 –**

_The ship has righted itself again. Now my face hurts._

_-- _**11:35 am--**

_Our esteemed leading pioneer had to open the secondary cockpit door to make a call to nature, and was subsequently ambushed and trussed up by the fangirl posse (Thankfully after he had relieved himself). Co-pilot Kinneas is currently sleeping underneath the seat, cradling two large bottles of 'Chubby's foot-long bottles' and sucking his thumb._

_All that's left is to find somebody who can fly this damn thing._

… _There IS somebody who can still fly this thing, right? _

**--11:40am—**

_Seeing we're ALL GOING TO DIE…! Panting I would like to dictate my last will and testament. I, Fran Burko- __**You are not authorized to be admitted to this personal correspondence.**_

**--Recording ends—**

**--  
**

--**Voice diary: Assistant Orchestral violinist Penelo—**

**--Time: 11:45am—**

_Now, I've kissed a lot of things. Photos of Vaan, Sora the Cabin-boy when he was cradling a scraped knee, Vincent Valentine in a duel attempt with Selphie and Yuffie to play 'Let's wig out the emo-king'… but never the floor. Or the ceiling. Today, I kissed both._

_I'm such a two-faced surface whore. Shocking, I know. What next, the wall? The overhang? My lust for flat surfaces is increasing by the minute! In fact, that table over there looks pretty damn smokin'…_

_Okay, I've had my sarcastic moment. Now, let me revert to the best attitude for the situation._

_OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE AND I NEVER GOT TO SEE TIDUS ZELL AND VAAN IN WET SHIRTS AND TOUCHING EACH OTHER AND I REALLY, REALLY WANT THEM TO BECAUSE I. AM. GOING. TO. DIE!!_

_I never got to eat Archadian mango slices, either, and I'm never going to because WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!!_

_Nobody knows how it happened, one minute Irvine and Balthier were drinking a little, and the next thing they're wiped out and telling the crew that 'you guysh are da bestch eva, we reallrey wuv yooooou!' over the intercom. Now the plane is flying in circles and corkscrews and all other things and nobody can help us! _

_So, I've decided that I'm going to do the thing I've always wanted. Vaan. I know the location of the high-class vodka, a funnel and five yards of rope. No further elaboration is required._

_clink_

_The boy is mine! Mine, I tell you! And he's going to freakin' get over himself and jump me or so help me god, I will pin him down and figure out everything on my own!_

_Unravelling noise_

_Goodnight, people, do not weep for me. I shall die as I was born but with one exception: Wet, naked and screaming loudly._

_The exception? It involves Vaan, puberty and five years of UST._

_-Panting-_

**--Voice detected, flight steward Vaan recognized—**

_Pen? You're… uh… drooling a little._

_-Extreme panting-_

_Pen? Penelo?! WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH MY PAN-… ooooooooooooooohgod._

**--Recording ends—**

**--**

**--Voice Diary: Barman Basch—**

**--Time: 12:03 pm—**

_Everybody is running, screaming, Flight Steward Vaan came up to me asking for cigarettes before, red in the face and mumbling something about how he'd seen movie actors do it after 'mumble mumble mumble'. That Penelo girl from the entertainment section ran past in a towel and dragged him off to the sauna shortly after._

_I really, REALLY don't want to know what the hell is going on._

_What gets me, though, is how the pilots got drunk on a few bottles of cognac. I mean, they're pretty stalwart drinkers, and the lot they had wasn't that potent, so how did things get so out of control?_

_Either way, I've had a good life. Time to end it all savouring a nice bottle of Vintage '56, a fine year, fine damn year indeed. Why let it go to waste unappreciated?_

_-Dookdookdookdookdook-_

_-Burp-_

**--Recording ends—**

--

**--Voice diary: Ashelia B'nargin, assistant barkeep—**

**--Time 12:12 pm—**

_Well, Basch Fon Sexyburg is still up and walking about, drinking his best stuff._

_I don't get it, my plan was perfect! Find his indulgence schedule, and sabotage it._

_Actually, come to think of it, those bottles of Cognac that he was saving up to drink… I haven't seen them anywhere. And I put so much effort into spiking them!_

_Sigh Sometimes… I don't know… I wish the sky would fall on my head…_

_Wait, why is the ground getting bigger on the scenic windows?_

_Oh, SHI-_

**--Recording Ends—**

**--**

--**Reports on crash—**

**--Few were injured, however the aircraft was damaged beyond repair, as was the estate the aircraft crash-landed on. Crew health reports are as follows—**

**--Pilot Balthier: Remanded into custody for DUI, professional negligence and 'being a swarmy, adulterating bastard'. Seduced female guard and escaped escort, currently under pursuit, bounty hunters advised to 'Follow the trail of used condoms'.**

**--Co-pilot Irvine: Found embedded head-first in the chimney of the house the aircraft landed on. Currently in hospital for smoke inhalation, awaiting charges on bail for DUI and 'Atrocious Cowboy accent'. **

**--Mechanic Selphie: Apparently slept through entire ordeal, woke up enquiring as to whether 'Zell had finally eaten one hotdog too many and exploded'. Resolved to go back to train-working, in between feeding Co-pilot cherries in a meaningful manner. No charges will be pressed.**

**--Barman Basch: Suffering from Magickal overdose from overuse of 'Cleanse' Spell on eyes. Claims that 'Youngsters shouldn't know how to do things like that!'. Suspected mental instability or trauma, placed under house arrest until such time as he can speak about the horrors that he has potentially witnessed.**

**--Assistant Barmaid Ashe: Found in remains of surveillance room, retrieving tapes corresponding to male bathing schedule. Currently under investigation.**

**--Cabin Boy Sora: Made cries for help from an imaginary, bipedal dog and duck. Attacked rescue workers with Skeleton key, detained for medication.**

**--Stewardess Fran: Kicked Rescue workers in face, ran off screaming about river pebbles. Deemed under code #45 ('Crazy as Mad Cow shit') and written off employee register.**

**--Usher Yuffie: Found looting the bodies of the unconscious, attempted to pickpocket police and was detained in contempt.**

**--Bouncer Zell: Apparently suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, trigger of which appears to be the lack of hot dogs at hospital. After making mention of vegetarian sausages, subject aptly fell into a coma.**

**--Steward Masseuse Vaan: Was on piece of wreckage that flew into local all-girls school. Subject was naked and bound to bed that was welded to the wreckage with ropes, appeared to be intoxicated and was screaming at the students to untie him that he could escape.**

**Subject is currently awaiting trial for 172 charges of indecent exposure and singing 'Show me the way to go home, I'm horny and I need to use the bed'.**

**--Orchestral worker Penelo: Found in a convenience store three weeks later, waving a strip of blue-tipped plastic and screaming 'WHERE IS HE?!'. Unable to reacquire subject.**

**--Report ends—**

**--**

_**You've reached the manager of Fanservice Enterprises, Sephiroth. I'm afraid I'm too busy crafting crazy spirit-wielding plans to destroy the world to answer your call right now, so leave a message after the beep.**_

_OI! This is Dale Ogden, you know, the guy whose house was wiped out by your drunk-ass pilots? Yeah, listen pal, you're going to-!_

**--Message deleted--**

* * *

_Bwahaha!_


	17. Pirate takes Queen

_Okay, I kinda got my first flame last chapter. I'm going to address that._

_Firstly: Thank you. Honestly. It's nice to know that my work isn't filled with awesome, I guess I kinda got carried away with the praise-only reviews. I need more reviews that actually tell me that I'm doing something wrong, because otherwise I can't improve._

_Secondly: If you're not going to give me any information on how to rectify my mistakes (Saying that my work should go back to 'sensible and funny' is confusing. If I make it sensible, it's not funny, and vice versa) then at least sign in so I can ask. Your opinion matters, that's why I ask for reviews, but I can't reply to Anon._

_Finally: I could be wrong, but this is the first time that you have reviewed my work. If you were displeased at the trend my work has taken, you should have said so earlier. As such, you read my fiction and don't think enough of it to give your opinion, but suddenly the trend has gone to a point where you need to comment on how it's going wrong. There's no point if you saw it coming as you read my works, then didn't review. Because now whatever bad writing habits I had then are firmly entrenched now, no thanks to the inability to click the little purple button that many readers have._

_Excuse me, whoever you are, but if you didn't tell me how you liked it before, when the other chapters were written, ON the chapters, you should bloody well say so when you damn well read them. Commenting now and saying I've put the fandom in the drain is like closing the barn doors after the horses have run. Be a little more prompt next time, that's all I'm asking._

_Goes for the rest of you as well. When I read, I comment. I expect the same damn courtesy, and since this is getting harder and harder to do, I'm planning to stop soon unless I get some good ideas. I've had over 3,000 visitors to this series, and less than 100 reviews. Therefore, I'm assuming that my stuff isn't good enough to review for the majority of you. Following that logic, I've decided that I will discontinue this collection. Finito. No more. After the next chapter, I'm finished with this, completely fed up. I no longer have the motivation to write it, it just isn't fun anymore._

_That's all, folks. Enjoy the chips. And thanks to the good people who actually DO review. Without you, I wouldn't have had the incentive to make it past the fifth chapter._

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

In the bar of Heaven, guided by the light of Faram, sat two men at a wicker table, seated in little wicker chairs. Flat White coffees lay cooling in their cups, the fluffy foam circling the centre of the white porcelain like hurricanes, dragging behind the wisps of froth as the two figures stared at each other over the steaming beverages.

A spirit would float past, offer them a new drink, and be politely declined. When either man shifted around, one did so to the clank of armour, one to the grind of hardened leather pieces rubbing over the overlapping scales. Eyes narrowed as the lines of battle were interpreted to their own unique brands of tactics, each unit speculated unto its potential, its usage, and its expendability.

Green eyes observed grey, a frown was met by an equally displeased scowl. A masculine grunt was countered with an almost unheard 'hmm' as the urge to advance and make a move was quietly entreated, responded to by a shake of the head.

"For the sake of the gods, Reddas, make your move!" The armoured man sighed angrily, nudging a piece on the chessboard with his finger absently. Looking over the melee of ivory and ebony that graced the checkered square of marble, he pondered the possible outcomes of any single move. How many times could he think ahead? Five? Six? Was it even prudent?

"In time, young one. We have all the time in the world… or, moreover, the time in the otherworld." The darker man chuckled, fingering a strutting figurine of a Sky pirate.

The other man sighed, clenching his fists on the table and taking brief sips of his lukewarm coffee as he continued looking over the game of strategy.

"Why is it…" He started, then shook his head and continued drinking.

"Vossler." The previous Sky Pirate overseer's tone was that of 'Spill it'. He looked up from the nine by nine board as the plate-covered man pondered the pieces upon it.

The Aide-de-camp of the resistance (Or insurgence, as her majesty would put it. Nobody bothered to tell her that it wasn't an insurgence until it had actually succeeded, and even then, she wouldn't have heeded them.) motioned over the boardgame. Several captured pieces were placed at the sides of the marble, out of play. The others were scattered around the squares, hinting at a war of heavy depth, well thought and calculated.

All in all, there were two colours, black and white. Nine Remora gunships for each colour, able only to move two spaces at the start of the game, and could only capture diagonally. Two Seeqs, having the full reign of movement horizontally and vertically, were chosen to represent the blunt rampages of their ilk in war.

The diagonally-moving Bangaa, selected in that role as a minor slant towards their lizardy appearances (And, in particular, the idea that they slithered crossways in the manner of snakes) had already been removed. As were three of the Sky Pirate pieces, able to jump over other pieces in an L fashion with their agile ships, but not agile enough to escape sacrifice or an unexpected Remora trap.

The most dangerous pieces, however, were the judges. Able to move in any direction as far as they pleased (For who had more resources than a judge?) and numbering two, they were the finest assets, and the greatest targets.

Why not the Queen? The single-space moving, capture-and-you-win piece… why was she not allowed to be the most dangerous piece of all?

"Why… are the most powerful things… always confined?" Vossler sighed.

Reddas bit his lip in thought, and moved a Seeq three squares back.

"Can you imagine an Adult Zodiark?" The Sky Pirate mused, "Can you imagine the calamity that would befall the world, the wasteland it would become? How that monster would have its eyes on the sun, then the next, and the next, until the entire universe finally ended in darkness?"

The Aide shook his head, and nudged a Sky Pirate two spaces right and one space forward, eliminating an unguarded Remora from the game.

"I cannot. But I would know if the princess… Bah. I should have lived to serve her." He laughed, "Too late do I find my folly trailing behind me, one wasted life on one waste of a lie."

"You were young, you died doing what you thought was right… in a massive blaze of, would I not cynical enough to disbelieve of its very existence, I would call glory." Reddas commiserated with the young man opposite him, shifting a judge to threaten the Pirate.

"And what of you, Pirate? You died part in vain, part in heroism. Crushed the stone that sparked the flame." Vossler moved a Remora up to secure the safety of the piece, "In quenching a God-given evil, you helped to craft a titan of metal."

"Aye, so I did. But I would have died anyway, and the foes of that titan would have perished had I not blocked the Cryst." Reddas moved the Seeq again to threaten the shifted Remora, not paying attention to the drumming of the younger man's fingers on the flimsy wood-weave that was the table.

"So you died in vain." Vossler sighed, "And you were truly a great man, in your own way."

As he moved another Remora, the Knight and the Pirate regarded each other over the game of strategy.

"I shall take that as a compliment." Reddas smirked, moving his judge back to threaten the other man's judge, protected by his own Remora.

"I would be honoured if you did." Vossler sighed, moving the Judge into the protective space that the Sky Pirate piece commanded. "But, oh former Judge, it seems I have a perfect defense." He remarked, waving his hand over the defensive perimeter that his pieces had formed.

"Aye, very impressive."

Reddas took one look at the boy, and moved his _other_ Judge down to Vossler's side of the board.

"But shouldn't you be protecting the Queen?"

The knight looked at the board, and nearly had a double-take at the layout of the pieces. His moving of his pieces had left the Queen pinned against a corner of the board, unreachable by his forces and completely vulnerable.

"Checkmate. It seems you make the same mistakes in death as you do in life." Reddas laughed.

Vossler bristled at the insinuation, and said the only thing that popped into his head.

"At least I'm not bald."

The look on Reddas' face at that remark had him laughing for days.

* * *

_Phew. Feels good to get that off my chest. But I actually am getting tired of this, maybe I'll stop at 20..._


	18. Chugalug

_This is short and not very good, but it was just an idea that popped into my head one day and has been niggling at me ever since.

* * *

_

_Ding dong_

Exodus gave his tie a nervous tweak, trying to straighten it out. After a stunning ass-whooping at the hands of a bunch of Humes, he had found himself unemployed as a spiritual Dropout, and had been moping around his windy heaven for a few days pigging out on ice cream.

Then, the news came in. Turns out that everybody in the ol' Zodiac thirteen had a little trouble when it came to these particular humans, and where now screwed with copious amounts of free time. What was he to do? He was pretty heavy in the ranks (As he sniffed at the idea of Famfrit getting a higher tier. Honestly, some asskissers had all the luck) and had to keep up appearances one way or the other.

It was Cuchulainn's idea to throw a celestial kegger, complete with a barbeque and giant vat-o-booze. After a little murmuring among the ranks, the decision was unanimous: Pity and piss for all!

_Ding dong ding dong_

The Earth Esper pressed the button a few times in his impatience, breathing a sigh of relief as a soft 'Friggin' aye! I'm comin', I'm comin'!' sounded through the door. Cuchulainn burst through shortly afterwards, decked in a giant Hawaiian T-shirt and extremely baggy jeans, the legs trailing on the ground.

"Dus-ex-machina! Been a while, man; what you been up to?" The large creature laughed, shockwaves travelling through its bulk as it slapped its belly.

"Dirt." Came the gruff reply, "Always freaking dirt."

"Try working in a sewer for your community service penalty, huh? Anyway, come on in! The others are all here." The blob led him through the hall and out into the paradise-themed back yard, where a pool and a giant grill-rack had been set up, hot dogs and cool punch waiting on the side.

Exodus began to mingle with the crowd, watching the proceedings so far. A red-face Zeromus was arguing heatedly with a scowling Ultima beside the volleyball net, a punctured ball still dangling off his claw. Chaos was screaming at a puking Mateus to stop uphurling into his bowl, but at least the others seemed to be acting a little saner than the others.

Being somewhat of a wallflower, the Judge-Sal took over the tongs and spatula from Adrammelech, tossing sausages and flipping patties on the roaring grill, bemusedly trying to figure out just what was missing…

"What do you mean I can't drink?!"

Exodus winced, that bratty, whiny squeal could only mean one thing. Placing a patty on a plate, he looked over at the scene forming by the keg, and yup…

… Zodiark was dicking up again.

"You're underage, you little bugger!" Hashmal whacked the screaming child around the head with a spin of his arms, "We're all responsible here!"

"I've been underage for ten thousand years, you prick!" The dark Esper cried, "Give me a sip, please?!"

"No!"

"Pretty please?"

"NO!!"

"I'll destroy you if you don't."

Hashmal paused, and positioned the keg above the squealing youth, breaking off the tap. A fountain of spiked beer flooded the mouth of the High one, who surprisingly took all the alcohol into his craw without difficulty.

Exodus quickly looked away in time to catch Shemhazai rushing forward to stop the inebriation, crying something about a horsie ride.

Cuchulainn rushed by a little later, asking Famfrit (Who had been tanning by the pool, withdrawing an unbelievable amount of body butter from his jug) to help deal with 'Zalera and his horny crack bitch.' who were apparently getting fresh in the Master bedroom.

Exodus took another look around. Ultima was currently helping Mateus back to the toilet inside (Apparently having Cuchulainn serve and touch the meats on the Barbie was a very bad idea) to finish emptying her stomach while Zeromus beat Adrammelech over the head for mistaking his claw with a lobster entrée. A rumbling and a massive blast of water ejected the semi-naked Zalera (Complete with Crack bitch) from the top of a two-storey house window into the pool, which knocked over Ultima as she was handling the poorly Ice Esper.

The Seraph of light took offense and proceeded to slap the hell out of the woman on Zalera's shoulder, who slapped back, beginning a catfight in the middle of the pool, drawing several of the Male God-spirits to catcall and cheer them on. Soon, only three espers were standing by the barbeque.

"Them's the breaks, huh?" Famfrit muttered, pouring a hefty shot of whisky from his jug and taking a swig.

"Hmmm." Exodus muttered, chuckling as a piss-drunk Zodiark clung to his leg and declaim 'You're a… a… a special person! Yeah, and… anananananan I… RESPECT you.' Before leaving to headbutt the house. After a while, he collapsed and began sucking his paw, leaving Shemhazai to draw on his face with a magic marker once she got bored with the proceedings.

The fight continued into the evening, until the time came for the little reunion to end, some of the cast slowly wandering away from the events with promises to catch up later. Mateus disappeared and reappeared after a minute as a summon was made, claiming that she may have just vomited on a Hume princess after she performed her limit technique. The others just laughed and promised to mock the hume in favour.

As Cuchulainn and Exodus watched the others leave, the Judge-Sal finally figured out what was missing.

"Hey, where's Belias?" He asked, looking for the off-switch for the barbeque.

"You've been cooking on him for most of the afternoon."

Exodus blinked, and with the aid of an oven-mitt raised the grill to discover a glowering Gigas underneath it, covered in grease stains.

"This is mortifying." He moaned.

--

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why a blob like Cuchulainn is an esper. Not because of any mythic crap, but because he throws killer parties.

* * *

_-Sings- 'I willll not pass this way again...'_

_More reviews = Quicker updates!_


	19. Not only the voices

**_Okay, this is the second to last chapter, but it's been... fun. I guess. I had fun some of the time. Happy new Year._**

* * *

_Life is a series of songs, strung together. Nobody knows who strings them together, who binds songs together for the two who fall in love, or who riffs the discords of hatred and war. It is not our duty to the songs to understand, to manipulate or to disquiet them._

_It is our duty only to sing them, as loud and pure as we can._

_- Dale Ogden_

--

(Reference: Bisaido Island, FFX)

When Vaan made music, it was a tune of his brother's, a simple ditty played on a wind pipe that put the listeners into the wind of an oasis. The single blows at the larger end produced a hollow booming sound that made the image of a clear, empty sky. Then, with the aid of a very precise Aero spell, he would leave the pipe playing in midair while he played delicately with a tiny harp at his side, the liquid sounds he plucked producing a vivid image of sloshing water over the high seas.

When that tune was set, he cast Aero again and worked on the next instrument, a series of blows and mini-piano tunes that put the mind of children playing through his head, before the tiny organ that he kept hidden in the back of his hideout breathed out something almost vocal, timed to the splashing of the waves.

It was the ocean, made of air. The sky made of water. The wind made of waves. The sea that the Sky Pirates plied their craft in, forever peaceful, infinitely beautiful; untaintable and untouchable.

That was the song that Vaan sung ever since his brother died. Because that is where his Brother went, to the realm where one could swim carefree; to the place where the dolphins called to the sea hawk.

It was a heaven, of sorts. He couldn't sing the words, because words would never do it justice, but only through music could that Elysium be transported.

Vaan never went a day without whistling that tune. He sings with air and water, and on the days of his brother's death, with memory.

--

(Reference: Blue Water Blue Sky, Guilty Gear XX)

Penelo did not think herself a singer. Singers usually had more confidence, had less cares, had more good things and less trouble. Besides, singers could sing about threatening things, like the men from the Outskirts, dressed in leather and pasty in the face. She only caught the first few words from one of their songs, 'Rein Raus', before she decided that the song was about something rather unpleasant and left the concert before somebody pawed at her again.

So she danced instead. It was more graceful, more balanced than any song that could be coming from her mouth and she loved it. She loved the wind and the scrunching of dust beneath her feet, and when she was flying she loved the feeling of maps unfurling underneath her fingertips and the rush of the escape. She loved the giddiness that ran around her ribs and up her neck when Vaan saw the sight of a difficult heist and suddenly the simple boy was gone. In his place was a man determined to see his name written across the globe, just so the people he knew have a reason to be proud.

And she doesn't know why, but she's accepting of this and afraid. She fears that one day, one day the task will be too much and that's it, _gone._ The light from his eyes, the strut in his walk, the lilt in his chuckle, all vanished from a piece of ill luck and a sharp edge. So she runs with him, keeping him in check and worrying, ever worrying.

But then she remembers that if she stops him, she'd have killed him just as surely as if she'd put a knife through his head. If she stopped his adventure, saved him from danger for her own piece of mind, he would die anyway. Besides, wasn't the reason life was so fun was that it was because of his hijinks? He doesn't need to make her proud, it wasn't possible to feel any stronger for the boy who became a man as she watched. And so, little by little, Penelo learns what it is to love somebody because of what they are, not what she wants them to be.

And her dances teach everybody they meet, about hope, about patience, about acceptance, and about perseverance.

Soon, Penelo will learn what it is like to sing with more than her body.

Until that day, Penelo sings with her dance.

--

(Reference: Nickleback)

It was time to be grim, Balthier feels, when there is absolutely no chance of saying something lighthearted without coming across as an idiot. When he is skimming along the rooftops on a hoverbike, he finds he can still sling a few jibs around after clipping a pesky Imperial over the helmet with the tail of the bike. A good sized hole ripped through an Avian with a pot-shot was grounds for a decent laugh, once the blood and slime was wiped off whoever was unfortunate enough to be near the exit wound, as was telling a most _excellent_ tale concerning Lord Larsa and the special magazines that Al-Cid had left at his doorstep one morning, 'purely for education's sake'.

But when the battle turns dire, or the stakes are high and joking will only do harm, Balthier sets his face, clenches his jaw and prepares to go down with his fists flying. He is not a gentile when it comes to performing blunt Dentistry upon an uncooperative Seej; most definitely without the latter's permission. He is not kind, he is not sympathetic, he is not a _good person_ in these circumstances, he is a thug. He hates the implication with every cell in his body, but he knows that a Gentleman would not survive in the underworld that he so often occupies, nor would a Brute survive in the deadly intrigue of the Senate, he is the Jack, the double-sider, the everything man.

And so he wonders whether it is his speech or his fists which sing for him, or the crack of his rifle. Little does he understand that his dual nature is what does his talking. When he walks, he walks with assurance that he will survive, and that he owns the very ground that he stands upon so long as he breathes. It is his pride, his power and his strong will that speak and sing for him, and his feet make the biggest sound of all in the Hero's empty halls of marble.

Balthier sings with his stride. And he is glad that there are still plenty of steps to take before he can claim the world with them.

--

(Reference: Ode to Joy, Beethoven)

Ashe knew only the Kingdom and her subject. Everything else was either a resource, Trade, or a threat. When the time came, she would gather her voice and cry out to the people, and they would raise their hearts in collected song, marching to war, kitting to buy and sell or endeavouring to make their country ever more prosperous. Every time she saw them leave, either in formation or in little groups that passed through the gates, she grieved for the ones that undoubtedly would not be coming home, finding their final resting place in the belly of a fiend or rotting in some corner of the globe.

She would was children press flowers on her in parade, smile at them and feel joy at the innocence that beamed from fresh-scrubbed faces and the zeal of youth. She was still young, but energy and impatience had no place in politics, and she was forced not to sing her own song.

But Ashe had found compromise. She truly loved her Kingdom, and if she could sing that to the people, then perhaps she no longer had to worry about the concerned glances across the council table. There was always a way, always a way to make her mark on the Kingdom, and she knew just how to do it.

Ashe doesn't sing by herself. She writes the music, and the people sing. Then, in the darkest hours of the night, she sings too, of simpler times and a happy childhood.

Ashe sings with the people of Dalmasca, and they love her for it.

--

(Reference: To you I belong, B*witched)

Fran, not surprisingly, can speak without words, hear without ears and feel without skin. In fact, she is more or less as alien as you can get without removing the physical similarities to a Hume and turning her into a Hermaphrodite. Which, due to the mostly unknown nature of Veira reproduction, could well be the truth in itself. Balthier refuses to comment when Vaan asks, allowing Fran's unnaturally acute senses to overhear and hit the boy in the stomach, sighing and declaring all Humes to be intolerable fools.

But Fran still sings. It is quiet, unheard by those who have not picked up on the tiny changes when she concentrates on the melody. There are flutes, there are bone keys that slowly vibrate the counterbeat, there are drums in the background. It puts one in mind of trees in the Twilight, giving off some strange luminescence that floats like a will-o-wisp among the trunks. It is almost holy, and definitely not of this world, and one wonders just what she sings to that makes you feel so strange in that world.

Fran sings, but what she sings to are a mystery. And nobody dares ask, in case it turns out to be a foolish question from yet another foolish Hume.

--

(Reference: Soldiers of the Wasteland, Dragonforce)

Basch did not sing. He does not feel that it is right to do so, after failing time and time again. However, he knows that he can help others to prevent his wrongs from repeating themselves. Every bunch of fresh faces that he sees in the army courtyard, he orders them first to take off their helmets and introduce themselves to each other, and then to take a sparring partner and train in basic combat for the rest of the day. He goes among them, straightening stances and tightening grips for days on end until they can at least hit each other without dropping their weapons.

In the second year of their training, he orders them to begin forming teams and to participate in mock battles, encouraging the use of every dirty trick, every feint and every cheat in order to stay alive. They fight with wooden weapons only, sheathed in blunt metal, but he thinks that since teamwork plays such a good part in everything, they should at least learn that as well.

In the third year, he knights them personally, and looks among them as if they were his own children. They swear to protect the Queen, the country and the people, and every night after they do he lets the tears fall, because he is _proud_ of his soldiers.

After the tenth year of training recruits, Basch feels the tightness in his joints, and he nods to his wife. They agree, no more war. Let the new blood in.

He picks up a pen, and begins to write…

_The Art of War. Basch Fon Ronsenburg._

Basch sings in his duty. Till death, he sings. Till death, he will never be silent.

--

_You only have the glimmer of song within you. Never lose it._

* * *

**_Righto! Now, there's a poll up on my profile, check it out. And remember to click the link at the bottom of my profile, it's a great spoof of popular animes and pretty damn fun in the bargain. Oh, and review too, that would be sweet. Feel free to question me!_**


	20. But the movements, too

_The very last one._

* * *

He is weaving, flying, rolling over backs bent from swinging massive swords, trying to avoid death by cutting steel and rending magicks. He snatches a Bolas from the floor, courtesy of a failed attempt to entangle him only twelve seconds ago. He does not have enough room to spin them, nor the time, instead using the weighted ends to wrap around an armoured head and smash the metal into the face beneath it. Ignoring the cries of agony, he ducks again from another wild slash, bringing his Durandal under and up in a gutting motion, slamming the blade through the weak flesh under the man's jaw and through his brain.

Blood and a little gray matter popped out with the point of the sword from the scalp, spurting a small bubbling fountain when he rips out the blade. He cannot rest now, even though his gasping breaths are like the desert sand itself on his throat. His heartbeats harder than a southern drum, his eyes dart from soldier to soldier, all trying to do him grievous harm in no uncertain terms, his ears filled with the quick scuffling of his feet, the clanking of armour and the rough, coarse cursing of Sylvaen troops. Vaan knew that while a heroic fight against multiple adversaries on a suspended wooden platform with no way out usually ended with a victory in favour of the single hero in comic books, this was real life.

And even in the thick of all this, even when he knows that this may be one bungled heist that he could have had a helping hand in, he can't help but think that _Penelo's cooking_ is probably waiting for him right now, steaming and slightly inedible while the cook herself played with her hair. It doesn't comfort him that if she had been there, she would have pointed out the layout of alarm traps (Grisly devices consisting of a skull and a heavy stick pounding on the bone once a wire was tripped) and got him… maybe… twenty metres further into the complex. Then again, given the now-known Sylvaen paranoia, it would have only meant that she would inevitably be in here with him, dodging death.

Vaan broke into a cold sweat as the two men he had taken down rose without a scratch, feeling their sealed wounds and nodding thanks at the spellcasters behind them. Suddenly, the battle seemed to become a definite fatal aspect of his career, with his foes undying and outnumbering him ten-to-one.

He feints forward and bends backward to avoid the cut, shivering as a blade whispers across his throat, nicking the skin. Another two men, wise now to his maneuvers, jabbed forward with their spears, slicing open a part of his pants as he twisted out of reach. He felt the banister at his back, hissing through his teeth as the men formed around him in a semi circle, another soldier swinging his swords with both arms in a vicious crosscut. Vaan's escutcheon managed to parry the horizontal blow, but the vertical chop dug deep into his thigh when he dodged back into the banister. Another spear blow clipped into his ribs, the bladed tip thrust too far forward to find any mark, save the wooden barrier.

All in all, Vaan mused, it could have been worse. He could have dragged his friends down with him, Kytes and Filo and even the Avariel guy, whats-his-name… Aa-thingy? Flyn? Flam? Kentucky fried? Nose-munch? Buttmonkey?

Either way, it was something comforting to focus on while he countered the next flurry of attacks, gritting his teeth as a Firaga spell sucked the air out of his lungs and sizzled his flesh. A clever parry from a man on the right left him swordless, Durandal flipped into the air and stabbed into the floor on the other side. With only his shield left, and with no time to perform any magicks, Vaan decided to do what any Sky Pirate would do when confronted with inescapable death:

Bullshit.

"Congratulations! In disarming me, you've won the right to the lottery for a homestead on the Galban coast!" Vaan smiled winningly, holding his arms wide in a supplicating manner. One of the men who weren't confused by the sudden change lunged forward with his spear, only to have Vaan dodge and trap the shaft underneath his armpit, jerking it away from the man and tossing it over the edge before the barbed underside of the blade could rip through his side.

"Viwhatz… whatziz?" One of the spellcasters down the back cried out, "Vouzse… Vouzse an thief! Notz lottoman!"

"Yas correct, lottoman camm yesterday." The furthermost guard on the right agreed. The swords and spears were raised again, ready to pierce the youth where he stood.

"I'm his son! I've got an even better deal for you!" Immediately Vaan knew this was a bad thing to tell them. Suspicious as they were, it wouldn't be long before they asked some very awkward questions…

"Butz he iz of za darka-hue. Youze iz maggot-pale."

Like that one. He had no idea how they mixed up his bronzed desert skin with pale, perhaps it was the light?

"Ah, my friends, there is a horrible tale behind my fleshy discolouration, wrought with mystery, intrigue, and a very accommodating whorehouse in upper Archadia-!"

"Doez diz stooorey end viz youzse filled vis holez?"

Vaan shook his head, "I'm afraid it doesn't, my good man, my flesh is mostly unharmed." He took the opportunity of the chuckles to apply a Curaga to his body, wincing as the deep cut on his thigh knitted together, "Anyway, I was on a business trip to the newly-opened boutique, and-"

"Zen I do not likez zis storey. We change it zo zhat you fill viz holez. _Karasapaati, Vikhamas!_" The frontmost troops lifted their spears, already beginning to lunge and skewer the thief, until…

"_Vetch!_"

The same spellcaster from before spoke up, using a localized Stop spell to prevent the peppering of the Rabanastran.

"_D'jatovi, De'sel?Rikkomas hamso?"_

"_Archadia brosal vik ton a'to a'ten. Jranvas…"_

Vaan blinked at the exchange, which left quite a few of the guards now staring at him in unabashed awe. He had absolutely no idea what had been said, but judging from the slaps on the back that the grinning spellcaster had received, it seemed to have something to do with foreign machismo.

"Youzar, zhat brofal youzse went to, in Archadia, it vaz call-lead 'Va Green soiree?'"

The young pirate blinked again, taken aback. "Uh… yeah, the one with the palms from Phon in the centre hall and everything."

"_Dreedik!"_

The majority of the guardian squad were grinning, now. The one with the most decorations gave the boy a respectful nod as the Spellcaster came out to the front, better for not having to shout his part of the conversation.

"Iz too go zar vunce, very goot quvarity, very fine vomanz, very cleanz." The man nodded, "Vhen waz last you go zar?"

"Uh…" Vaan shrugged, deciding to go for the truth at least. That way, there was a lesser chance of contradicting himself. "I had a friend, Balthier; take me there on my Eighteenth, two years ago. He'd plenty of money after a heist, so he treated me to a fancy place and told, no, _forced_ me to take a girl. 'I'm not teaching a man who cannot understand the finer intricacies of the fairer sex', he said to me and, well… yeah." He felt like hanging his head, having told Penelo on the day that he was going fishing with Basch, Larsa and the older Pirate off the Sandsea.

Lying to her had never sat well with him, but it was better than her knowing he'd shacked up with a whore for the night.

"Ach! Viz a mentorz! Zhow very goot to pazz down the mantlez! Vhich girl did d'ju pick?"

"Her name was Eilijan."

"I amz not familiar viz her."

"Really? She had long, blonde hair, kinda tied to a braid that went about so high." Vaan held his arm flat against the crook of his back, "She wore a Dalmascan dancing costume, bare midriff, baggy pants, and had biiiiiig blue eyes, super pretty!" Cursing himself for devolving his speech back into his adolescent tone, Vaan nonetheless continued as the guards began sitting back and lounging against the banister as he got into his story.

"And back then, I was pretty dense, a girl could strip off her clothes and throw herself at me with cries of 'Take me! Take me now!' and I'd probably wonder if she liked me or something. So when Eili came up and asked me if I knew what I wanted, I said apples."

"_Drasve hande'vektogua? Rungas?! Barristi!"_

Vaan didn't understand the language, but he knew a disparaging tone when he heard one. A guard not much older than him, slouching against the rail, had opened his mouth and sneered at him, prompting a small chorus of chuckles.

"He sayz zhat youzse must havez had zhome ecksuperience, nobody kanz be zhat naïve."

"Nah, all I really had on my mind back then was taking my revenge against the empire… and Sky Pirating. And maybe the day I would be old enough to drink. There were also… other things… but they weren't that important."

_Honestly, Penelo, why did you have to wear that getup so low on the hip?_

"Ach, an man drivenz, I zhee."

"So, yeah, she plied me with drink until I was so messed up in the head that I mistook her for somebody else. After that, well, you know, what with her rubbing herself on me and leading me off to the chambers… yeah."

"Miztook? Zho elze doez you zhnow viz zha bluu aiiza and zha longz hair and zha outfit?"

"A… well…"

The more Vaan looked back on it; there really wasn't anybody else who would fit the description. In fact, he was beginning to suspect that Balthier had dragged him off there _because_ there was a woman who very much resembled the girl he knew. Except… there really was no comparing them. Bits of memory mixed with shame filtered through, mingling with imagination born of hormonal buildup and speculation. The woman was rough where the girl would have been shy, exasperated where she would have been giggling, fire-fueled where she would have been slow and pondering. Mostly, the woman frowned, and swore when she was not frowning. There was no laughter, no smiles, only cold professionalism.

And the girl he knew would never have sighed and said 'You need work, a lot of it.' at the end. She wouldn't have left the bed and cast back one hard, disappointed look, before closing him in that room alone.

"She looked like my best friend."

There was silence, a few of the men coughing. Others just looked on without an expression, although a few were nodding and sighing, like they too knew the difficulties he had faced.

When he looked up at the spellcaster, he was surprised to see tears in the man's eyes. An occasional sniff and a shivering finger as he wiped his closed lids, finally seeming to find the strength to speak.

"Vhy don't'ju tell her, _dree'dik_?"

"Tell Penelo? Ha! She likes the rogueish, polite kinda guy, like the Emperor. She wouldn't go for some uneducated street boy that she grew up with. You should've heard her talking with Filo, 'Don't date the mate' she said, "Save yourself for the shining knight'!"

"Maybe… zhe does not vhant yousze to thinkz zhat zhe iz a fazt vomans?"

"Who knows. I've never been able to figure her out. I'd like to think that she likes me, but I don't think I'm willing to break what we have by trying my luck. But anyway, the story about my skin!"

Vaan jumped to his feet, startling the troops, a spell already brimming to life in his hands. "The hero vanishes into nothing, eludes the guards, having bought himself enough time to absorb mist and heal, and escapes to Dalmasca with five priceless relics tucked into his satchels, the end!"

As the boy's Vanish spell concealed him from the shouting audience, Vaan grinned to himself and sprinted to where the ship was tethered not a hundred feet away, likewise invisible.

Five minutes later, the Galbana Mk II soared into the night sky, to the cries of angry guards.

And later, when they located the spellcaster tied up in his closet, ranting about a Shapeshifting blonde-haired wisp that hit him with a sleep spell and took on his form, their screams were doubled still. They vowed bloody murder on the girl who had made a mockery of their defences.

Penelo didn't care; she was waiting for Vaan to set the autopilot before she pounced. Fun times were to be had, and the truth was always good to extract.

--

"Trees."

"Oh… that's tough. I'd have to say that I think of Shrubs."

"Leaves are the first thing to come to mind."

"Gardens."

"Really, Larsa? When somebody mentions trees, you think Gardens?"

"Basch, please, Archadian is very moist. We have trees in abundance, if you hadn't noticed."

"Fair enough."

This story was simple enough, and possibly the best in its simplicity. The emperor of Archadia required a quick, inconspicuous mode of transport in order to avoid the massive delegations that awaited him on the official barge to Rozzaria. A quick message, an annoyed sky pirate later, and he found himself on the Strahl with Basch as his accompaniment. Penelo had taken the opportunity to practice her navigating skills with Fran at the cockpit (How the two younger pirates had gotten on board or heard of the move was a mystery), leaving the four males with nothing to do in the central planning room but play games.

The game was simple, a word would be mentioned, and the associated word that first appeared in the head of the others would be spoken and revealed. So far, Vaan had likened Cactuar to sushi, Ashelia to a Nam-yensa (Basch had likened it to a fist in the stomach of an unamusing lech) and Basch to a great overbearing protective git who wouldn't know a joke if he got drunk and shared his life story with one and ended up married to it after a drunken night of debauchery.

"Larsa. Your turn."

"Very well… pillows."

"Rest."

"Sleep."

"Pillow fights. With chicks in their pajamas." Vaan pointed out. The others just gave him long, unamused stares.

"Pajamas, you say." Basch coughed, colouring in the cheeks. The staring was now directed at him.

"Oh, yeah. By pajamas, of course, I mean-"

"-In their altogether?"

"Yeeeeeah."

"I… see."

The two still blushing and unfocused in the eyes, the boy emperor turned to the older sky-pirate.

"Balthier?"

"Hmmm? Oh, yes. Fran."

The three men looked at him, at each other, and nodded, giving their answers simultaneously.

"Boobs."

"Tits."

"Breasts."

Balthier gave them all his most expressionless face, before sighing waving his hand before his face, a condescending smirk playing over a tic on his forehead.

"Please."

The other three did the simultaneous trick again.

"Ass."

"Booty."

"Buttocks."

This time, Balthier snapped. He hit the table, spilling the bottles over their owners and sweeping the impromptu game of checkers on the surface back to the floor. His hair, normally well kempt, began to strand off and peel from the peak of his crown.

"Is that all Fran is to you, is she? Just a satchel of flesh wrapped in metal, hmm?" He glared at each of them, disappointed. "Vaan, you'll never amount to any kind of pirate if you cannot tell a woman's ability from her front-bumps! Ditto to you, Larsa!"

"But I'm not going to be a pir-"

"Fine! You'll be an ass pirate! A fanny-bandit!" The smarmy rogue turned around, throwing his hands into the air, "Now _this_ is why I keep Fran's company. I'm surrounded by drooling imbeciles with seesawing blood concentrations and everywhere I turn there's another damn fool who thinks that because my partner is covered in a cast-iron body stocking doesn't mean she'll put those very sharp heels through his face!"

Basch nodded and took another swig from a rescued bottle, strangely unfazed. Larsa turned to Vaan and said something in a comical stage whisper.

_I don't get it; did he just call me gay?_

_Sounds that way, your highnessmajestything._

"Good gods, and that's another thing! None of you idiots know how to cook! I can forgive Mr Oooh-I'm-a-royal for that, but what about the rest of you? Vaan grew up in the streets-"

'With the food vendors.'

"-And Basch was a soldier!"

'I was a Captain from Graduation. There were officer's messes back then.'

"See? See!? You're all relying on women to provide for you! Fran never provided anything apart from a good sword arm and plenty of advice! When was the last time you saw her cook?!"

'But Viera don't use fire-'

"That's not the point!"

'Yes it is.'

"The point is, Fran is probably the epitome of a partner. She's professional, she's intelligent and she knows her craft! And all you ever see are her bumper-stickers!"

There was a long, significant silence. Finally, Basch cleared his throat.

"And you said _I_ was the one who couldn't take a joke."

Balthier stammered in mid comeback, blinking in the knowledge that he'd been had. Larsa raised his hand, a small smile on his face.

"Balthier, seeing as you're so wise to the feminist principal, and as you're an only child, do you mind if I ask a question?"

"Go ahead."

Vaan and Basch leaned in with anticipation, hunger for gossip easily read from eager eyes.

"As a child, did your mother ever dress you up as a girl?"

--

The minute Larsa entered the meeting hall, there was great aplomb. The young emperor found himself surrounded by concerned delegates and worried servants.

He brushed them away and called his attendance to the agenda, feeling his newly acquired black eye swell up again and vowing to raise the bounty on Balthier's head by another 12,000 gil.

* * *

_It was fun. Farewell._

_Dale Ogden_


End file.
